Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Inadvertently Funny Palin Quote
Our potential next Vice President, via Associated Press:
Yep, running for Vice President is a great way to learn all about the USA.
You know that old trick reporters sometimes play, where they ask candidates to name the Prime Minister of some foreign country? Here's an even better target. "Ms. Palin, what state is south of Iowa?" This is going to be fun!
The first-term Alaska governor told reporters she was having fun in her new role. "It's great to see another part of the country," she said.
Yep, running for Vice President is a great way to learn all about the USA.
You know that old trick reporters sometimes play, where they ask candidates to name the Prime Minister of some foreign country? Here's an even better target. "Ms. Palin, what state is south of Iowa?" This is going to be fun!
Who?!?!?
From Paris, John McCain's selection of Alaska Governor Sarah Palin seems bizarre. Step back from the moment-to-moment campaign jostling and ask this question: You are John McCain. You think you will be elected President. Who do you want as your V.P? You'd think that the independent, strong, leader McCain would step up to the plate and give us someone just as solid and substantial as he is, someone who he could rely on for advice and counsel, and, more importantly, someone ready to take over the Presidency on Day One (McCain is how old?) Someone like ... Joe Biden. OK, not quite the same policy preferences there, but you get the idea. But never, never would you expect that McCain would pick a young, very inexperienced, almost unknown woman from left field.
What this says to me is two things. First, forget for the duration of the campaign the good old, open, accessible, say-what's-on-your-mind (I think "Straight Talk" was the phrase, wasn't it?) John McCain. From now on, the political handlers will make all the calls. Chalk one up there for Obama. Second, erase from your mind the idea that John McCain is a politician who will put his "country first" all the time. Level with us, John ... do you really, really think Sarah Palin is the most qualified person in the whole United States to take over if something happens to you. Of course not.
What's happened is that John McCain has traded "straight talk" for what he sees as political expediency and has at the same time made, in my view, a big mistake, for the reasons discussed here and here. Reading between the lines, the French press is appalled; I've watched three or four news programs on TV since the announcement, and each of them has shown that great footage of Ms. Paulin picking up a rifle or machine gun or whatever the hell it is, sighting through the scope, and putting her finger on the trigger. They are wanting to communicate: Even more than a pistol-packing mama, what we've got here is a machine-gun-toting danger to the world. (And then there's that hair. Oh Sarah, oh Sarah, let down your long hair.) [Sorry, I have the flu, perhaps delirium is at work; I mean no offense to those of you with the beehive thing, I used to love the B52s.]
Finally, I am completely, completely irked at Hillary Clinton. I didn't believe it, I really didn't believe it, but after the convention, and after this story (Clinton Congratulates Palin) I'm ready to believe that she doesn't want to see Obama elected. Given an opportunity to rip McCain's pick on any number of things, what does Hillary say?
Yeah.
What this says to me is two things. First, forget for the duration of the campaign the good old, open, accessible, say-what's-on-your-mind (I think "Straight Talk" was the phrase, wasn't it?) John McCain. From now on, the political handlers will make all the calls. Chalk one up there for Obama. Second, erase from your mind the idea that John McCain is a politician who will put his "country first" all the time. Level with us, John ... do you really, really think Sarah Palin is the most qualified person in the whole United States to take over if something happens to you. Of course not.
What's happened is that John McCain has traded "straight talk" for what he sees as political expediency and has at the same time made, in my view, a big mistake, for the reasons discussed here and here. Reading between the lines, the French press is appalled; I've watched three or four news programs on TV since the announcement, and each of them has shown that great footage of Ms. Paulin picking up a rifle or machine gun or whatever the hell it is, sighting through the scope, and putting her finger on the trigger. They are wanting to communicate: Even more than a pistol-packing mama, what we've got here is a machine-gun-toting danger to the world. (And then there's that hair. Oh Sarah, oh Sarah, let down your long hair.) [Sorry, I have the flu, perhaps delirium is at work; I mean no offense to those of you with the beehive thing, I used to love the B52s.]
Finally, I am completely, completely irked at Hillary Clinton. I didn't believe it, I really didn't believe it, but after the convention, and after this story (Clinton Congratulates Palin) I'm ready to believe that she doesn't want to see Obama elected. Given an opportunity to rip McCain's pick on any number of things, what does Hillary say?
“We should all be proud of Governor Sarah Palin's historic nomination, and I congratulate her and Senator McCain," Clinton, the first woman to win a presidential primary, said in the statement. "While their policies would take America in the wrong direction, Governor Palin will add an important new voice to the debate.”
Yeah.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Guest Blogger, Part 2: How to Get Your Non-French Speaking Kids Enrolled in the Best Paris Public Schools
[Editor's note: Suzie continues, with some minor editing and photographic additions from SSS.]
We had discovered that our kids would be placed in the worst school in Paris. We were aware that much of what we read could be the normal rumors and speculation that often surround parental discussions of schools. However, the ranking of the third worst school in France was not a parent’s subjective measure. Action was needed, and quick.
When we were at CASNAV on testing day, I had asked several questions, including where the kids might be placed, whether we could find a place for them closer to home in one of our neighborhood schools, when the letter would come telling us where they would be placed, whether it would come before the first day of school. The helpful woman kindly told me that we could request a different placement in a more distant arrondissement of Paris if we wanted to. Being naïve and trusting and wanting the kids as close to home as possible, it never occurred to me that she might be sending me a covert message that I might want to make such a request. I responded “no thank you” and we went on our way.
Well now I was ready to make such a request -- but I didn’t expect it to be easy or successful. One of the articles we had read was about a family who lived near us in the 14th whose daughter had been assigned to Francois Villon. They appealed the decision to no avail. They pursued their efforts to have their daughter moved to another school, started a website, rallied other parents and eventually sued the City of Paris. So, despite that fact that I could make a “request” I wasn’t expecting the going to be easy.
Not really knowing what I would encounter at CASNAV, not sure I could communicate all of my needs in French, and dreading that the boys had already been assigned to a school and the letters gone out, I set out for the long, long metro ride to CASNAV. I had timed my arrival for 12:30, after most of the testing was done for the day, but before the staff left for lunch.
Entering the office, I was greeted by the kindly security guard, explained (almost completely honestly) that “Je dois ajouter quelque chose aux dossiers de mes enfants” (that is, that I needed to add “add something to the dossiers of my children”). I was directed down to the Salle de Test where I miraculously found the same Madame from the day before. She immediately remembered us and gave me her full attention. I explained as best I could that yesterday after the testing she had told me that my boys would be at Lycee-College Villon and that I strongly wanted them to be placed in another school. I had several moments of panic when she started her response by saying that she hears this from lots of parents but, in fact, many parents and children are very satisfied at Francoise Villon. I feared the next thing would be, “I’m sorry but we have already made the allocation and there is nothing I can do.” But, au contraire, she said to follow her upstairs and she would see what she could do.
The search for the dossiers and testing results involved riffling through several deserted and scorching offices (no air conditioning at CASNAV). Finally they were all found. Apparently, the boys tests had been scored but they had not yet been assigned to a school. What luck! She then explained that if they were going to be placed someplace else, they could not be placed in the same school. We spent about 10 minutes discussing the options, estimating which of the possible schools would be the easiest commute on the metro (with the aid of a large map of Paris and the metro posted on the wall.) She went far beyond the call of duty in telling me which of the schools were good choices, something I’m sure she should not have done and helped me make the best selections I could given my ignorance of everything having to do with the Paris schools. She then took her own lunch time to type up the coveted letters and handed them to me so that the boys could start school immediately upon la rentree (the first day of school).
I felt so confident of my French after all of this communication that I wanted to tell her let her know how relieved I was. I looked her in the eye, thanked her profusely and told her that, “C’est un grand soulevement!” She gave me a little smile, told me she understood me and wished me a “Bonne journee.” (A good day). As I was walking out of the CASNAV building I realized that soulagement is the word for “relief.” Hmm, what had I said to her? When I got home to my dictionary, I found out that rather than saying “It’s a great relief!” I had said “It’s a great uprising!” [Editor's note: Possibly there would have been a great uprising had Suzie not been successful.]
The irony of all this is that Will has ended up at one of the most sought after schools in Paris. In the 7th arrondissement, across the street from the magnificent Dome Church and the Invalides, and immediately adjacent to the Musee Rodin, Lycee-College Duruy has massive grounds, well tended gardens, elegant old buildings, an enormous gym and new science building, not to mention a very good reputation. [Editor's note: If anything, this understates it. The place looks like a Hollywood set designer's vision of an elegant French school, as these pictures evidence (the first and the last were taken of and from the garden in the middle of the school:]
Andrew is also well situated at College Francois Couperin in the Marais very near the Hotel de Ville. He is thrilled about the neighborhood and already has already started to scope out his skateboard route from the metro stop to school. [Editor's note: His school is less picturesque but in a very cool area, right across the Seine from the Ile St. Louis:]
[For Google Map fans, the locations of both are shown below.]
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&t=h&s=AARTsJoJtqyVWQpUu-YVHf561KGEuV9lzA&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000455876aaaae8ac012c&ll=48.855962,2.334852&spn=0.027107,0.054932&z=14&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
It is now time to go out and find all of the school supplies we need. La rentree is Tuesday!
We had discovered that our kids would be placed in the worst school in Paris. We were aware that much of what we read could be the normal rumors and speculation that often surround parental discussions of schools. However, the ranking of the third worst school in France was not a parent’s subjective measure. Action was needed, and quick.
When we were at CASNAV on testing day, I had asked several questions, including where the kids might be placed, whether we could find a place for them closer to home in one of our neighborhood schools, when the letter would come telling us where they would be placed, whether it would come before the first day of school. The helpful woman kindly told me that we could request a different placement in a more distant arrondissement of Paris if we wanted to. Being naïve and trusting and wanting the kids as close to home as possible, it never occurred to me that she might be sending me a covert message that I might want to make such a request. I responded “no thank you” and we went on our way.
Well now I was ready to make such a request -- but I didn’t expect it to be easy or successful. One of the articles we had read was about a family who lived near us in the 14th whose daughter had been assigned to Francois Villon. They appealed the decision to no avail. They pursued their efforts to have their daughter moved to another school, started a website, rallied other parents and eventually sued the City of Paris. So, despite that fact that I could make a “request” I wasn’t expecting the going to be easy.
Not really knowing what I would encounter at CASNAV, not sure I could communicate all of my needs in French, and dreading that the boys had already been assigned to a school and the letters gone out, I set out for the long, long metro ride to CASNAV. I had timed my arrival for 12:30, after most of the testing was done for the day, but before the staff left for lunch.
Entering the office, I was greeted by the kindly security guard, explained (almost completely honestly) that “Je dois ajouter quelque chose aux dossiers de mes enfants” (that is, that I needed to add “add something to the dossiers of my children”). I was directed down to the Salle de Test where I miraculously found the same Madame from the day before. She immediately remembered us and gave me her full attention. I explained as best I could that yesterday after the testing she had told me that my boys would be at Lycee-College Villon and that I strongly wanted them to be placed in another school. I had several moments of panic when she started her response by saying that she hears this from lots of parents but, in fact, many parents and children are very satisfied at Francoise Villon. I feared the next thing would be, “I’m sorry but we have already made the allocation and there is nothing I can do.” But, au contraire, she said to follow her upstairs and she would see what she could do.
The search for the dossiers and testing results involved riffling through several deserted and scorching offices (no air conditioning at CASNAV). Finally they were all found. Apparently, the boys tests had been scored but they had not yet been assigned to a school. What luck! She then explained that if they were going to be placed someplace else, they could not be placed in the same school. We spent about 10 minutes discussing the options, estimating which of the possible schools would be the easiest commute on the metro (with the aid of a large map of Paris and the metro posted on the wall.) She went far beyond the call of duty in telling me which of the schools were good choices, something I’m sure she should not have done and helped me make the best selections I could given my ignorance of everything having to do with the Paris schools. She then took her own lunch time to type up the coveted letters and handed them to me so that the boys could start school immediately upon la rentree (the first day of school).
I felt so confident of my French after all of this communication that I wanted to tell her let her know how relieved I was. I looked her in the eye, thanked her profusely and told her that, “C’est un grand soulevement!” She gave me a little smile, told me she understood me and wished me a “Bonne journee.” (A good day). As I was walking out of the CASNAV building I realized that soulagement is the word for “relief.” Hmm, what had I said to her? When I got home to my dictionary, I found out that rather than saying “It’s a great relief!” I had said “It’s a great uprising!” [Editor's note: Possibly there would have been a great uprising had Suzie not been successful.]
The irony of all this is that Will has ended up at one of the most sought after schools in Paris. In the 7th arrondissement, across the street from the magnificent Dome Church and the Invalides, and immediately adjacent to the Musee Rodin, Lycee-College Duruy has massive grounds, well tended gardens, elegant old buildings, an enormous gym and new science building, not to mention a very good reputation. [Editor's note: If anything, this understates it. The place looks like a Hollywood set designer's vision of an elegant French school, as these pictures evidence (the first and the last were taken of and from the garden in the middle of the school:]
Andrew is also well situated at College Francois Couperin in the Marais very near the Hotel de Ville. He is thrilled about the neighborhood and already has already started to scope out his skateboard route from the metro stop to school. [Editor's note: His school is less picturesque but in a very cool area, right across the Seine from the Ile St. Louis:]
[For Google Map fans, the locations of both are shown below.]
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&t=h&s=AARTsJoJtqyVWQpUu-YVHf561KGEuV9lzA&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000455876aaaae8ac012c&ll=48.855962,2.334852&spn=0.027107,0.054932&z=14&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
It is now time to go out and find all of the school supplies we need. La rentree is Tuesday!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Guest Blogger: How to Get Your Non-French-Speaking Kids Enrolled in the Paris Public Schools
Steve has insisted that I do a blog entry about our experience entering into the public school system in France. [Editor's note: "Suggested" is more accurate that "insisted." I also added some links and pictures and extraneous commentary.] So here goes.
The dreaded day had arrived when the kids would be tested to be placed in the French public school system. In Paris there is a department of the schools ("L'académie de Paris"). called CASNAV (the "Centre Académique pour la Scolarisation des Nouveaux Arrivants et des enfants du Voyage") designed to welcome, test and place foreigners and others entering the French public schools. We had gone to this office in early July, directed there by a local school official, only to learn that we had just missed the testing (it had ended that morning). Testing would resume in late August. The first 50 families to arrive each day at the CASNAV office are tested. Others must come back the next day. So this day had been hanging over us all summer. As we knew it was coming, it gave us plenty of time to look forward to the bureaucratic hassles to come, not to mention the usual exam dread that teenagers inevitably have.
Up early, café (me) and chocolat chaud (the kids) with cereal. Out early, long-long metro ride to a distant suburb, then a long walk. We arrived at 8:30 a.m., a good half hour before the 9:00 a.m. opening time. To our horror we saw a throng of people outside of the CASNAV office. An efficient security guard from the Mairie de Paris was posted out front to do crowd control. The line of parents with their children started outside the office and stretched down the block and around the corner.
We had expected that a lot of people would arrive on the first day of testing after “les grandes vancances.” But we hadn’t expected something that looked like a crowd gathered outside the doors to a rock concert, with the usual jerks trying to push their way into the front of the line. With resignation, we took our place at the end of the line and were soon joined by even later-comers. We started what looked to be a very, very long wait.
We waited, and we waited. We drank a few sips of water (not too much for fear of needing a toilet). We ate a cracker (not too many for fear of being thirsty.) We talked. We speculated about when the line would start moving. We worried about all the people pushing in at the front of the line. Would we be in the first 50? Would we have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again? We drank another sip of water. Eventually boredom forced us to strike up a conversation with the (clearly) American man and his daughter who were directly behind us. This helped to pass the time and the hours (literally) slipped away. After a while, a man and his son from Australia, fighting their own boredom, joined our conversation.
Eventually, the efficient and friendly security guard came down the line handing out numbered tickets. After assuring himself that each family had a rightful place in line and hand not pushed their way in, he handed them a numbered ticket. [Editor's note: As Suzie described it to me, this involved the security guard verifying everyone's place in line by asking the few folks in front of them whether the people had, in fact, been in line from the beginning. This put the kabosh on line-jumpers.] We were soon in possession of our own yellow ticket – number 47. We just made it! Slowly the line advanced toward the door.
Another hour passed as Will and Andrew made friends with Daniel from Australia (age 15). Eventually, the two kids in front of us (French but having just moved from Naples where they attended an American school) also joined the English conversation.
What happened in this line is what often happens when people with something in common are stuck in close proximity – they bond quickly. By the end of our almost four hour wait in the line, I had made friends with the two parents and the kids had all exchanged contact information and made plans to go to a movie later that night.
About 12:30 we finally were ushered into the office and the children were whisked away for testing. Parents whisked into an office filled with many, many other parents waiting with documents in hand ready to establish the “dossier.” We waited. I got to know Daniel’s father Morie really well. We waited some more. Finally, it was my turn. In no time flat, I’d given them all the documents they needed, the self-addressed stamped envelopes, the two passport photos. Voila! Will and Andrew were official.
The kids came back with big smiles, happy the testing was done. After asking a few questions, I found out that the kids would probably be placed in a college relatively near us in the 14th arrondissement. Will would be in a “Welcome Class” and Andrew in an “Intensive French Class.” Eventually, they would be fully integrated into a regular French class. Learning the name of the school, Lycee-College Francois Villon, we went happily off toward a much need lunch and home.
Without exception, everybody associated with CASNAV was efficient, helpful, and welcoming, including the security guard. True to the word of the law (which we had checked out ahead of time) the French school system never asked us for proof of legal residency and scrupulously did not look in the visa section of our passports to see if we were here legally. While the wait was long and the day was exhausting, we were treated fairly in every way. Plus, we somehow miraculously placed ourselves in line right in between the only other English speakers in the whole place and we made new friends. It was a satisfying day in every way.
That was good. This was not. Later that evening, through researching the Lycee-College Francois Villon through Google, we discovered that Lycee Francois Villon is “L’un des plus mauvais lycees de France.” For you non-French speakers, “One of the worst lycees in France.” In fact, according to the article we found, in the "classement publié en janvier dernier par le magazine L’Etudiant[,] François-Villon se trouve à la 1 862e place sur 1 865 lycées passés au banc d’essai en France!" That means that out of 1,865 lycees (high schools) in France, François-Villon ranked 1,862. We also found articles quoting parents worried about the security of their kids at François-Villon.
A parental freak out ensued. What to do? Stay tuned....
The dreaded day had arrived when the kids would be tested to be placed in the French public school system. In Paris there is a department of the schools ("L'académie de Paris"). called CASNAV (the "Centre Académique pour la Scolarisation des Nouveaux Arrivants et des enfants du Voyage") designed to welcome, test and place foreigners and others entering the French public schools. We had gone to this office in early July, directed there by a local school official, only to learn that we had just missed the testing (it had ended that morning). Testing would resume in late August. The first 50 families to arrive each day at the CASNAV office are tested. Others must come back the next day. So this day had been hanging over us all summer. As we knew it was coming, it gave us plenty of time to look forward to the bureaucratic hassles to come, not to mention the usual exam dread that teenagers inevitably have.
Up early, café (me) and chocolat chaud (the kids) with cereal. Out early, long-long metro ride to a distant suburb, then a long walk. We arrived at 8:30 a.m., a good half hour before the 9:00 a.m. opening time. To our horror we saw a throng of people outside of the CASNAV office. An efficient security guard from the Mairie de Paris was posted out front to do crowd control. The line of parents with their children started outside the office and stretched down the block and around the corner.
We had expected that a lot of people would arrive on the first day of testing after “les grandes vancances.” But we hadn’t expected something that looked like a crowd gathered outside the doors to a rock concert, with the usual jerks trying to push their way into the front of the line. With resignation, we took our place at the end of the line and were soon joined by even later-comers. We started what looked to be a very, very long wait.
We waited, and we waited. We drank a few sips of water (not too much for fear of needing a toilet). We ate a cracker (not too many for fear of being thirsty.) We talked. We speculated about when the line would start moving. We worried about all the people pushing in at the front of the line. Would we be in the first 50? Would we have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again? We drank another sip of water. Eventually boredom forced us to strike up a conversation with the (clearly) American man and his daughter who were directly behind us. This helped to pass the time and the hours (literally) slipped away. After a while, a man and his son from Australia, fighting their own boredom, joined our conversation.
Eventually, the efficient and friendly security guard came down the line handing out numbered tickets. After assuring himself that each family had a rightful place in line and hand not pushed their way in, he handed them a numbered ticket. [Editor's note: As Suzie described it to me, this involved the security guard verifying everyone's place in line by asking the few folks in front of them whether the people had, in fact, been in line from the beginning. This put the kabosh on line-jumpers.] We were soon in possession of our own yellow ticket – number 47. We just made it! Slowly the line advanced toward the door.
Another hour passed as Will and Andrew made friends with Daniel from Australia (age 15). Eventually, the two kids in front of us (French but having just moved from Naples where they attended an American school) also joined the English conversation.
What happened in this line is what often happens when people with something in common are stuck in close proximity – they bond quickly. By the end of our almost four hour wait in the line, I had made friends with the two parents and the kids had all exchanged contact information and made plans to go to a movie later that night.
About 12:30 we finally were ushered into the office and the children were whisked away for testing. Parents whisked into an office filled with many, many other parents waiting with documents in hand ready to establish the “dossier.” We waited. I got to know Daniel’s father Morie really well. We waited some more. Finally, it was my turn. In no time flat, I’d given them all the documents they needed, the self-addressed stamped envelopes, the two passport photos. Voila! Will and Andrew were official.
The kids came back with big smiles, happy the testing was done. After asking a few questions, I found out that the kids would probably be placed in a college relatively near us in the 14th arrondissement. Will would be in a “Welcome Class” and Andrew in an “Intensive French Class.” Eventually, they would be fully integrated into a regular French class. Learning the name of the school, Lycee-College Francois Villon, we went happily off toward a much need lunch and home.
Without exception, everybody associated with CASNAV was efficient, helpful, and welcoming, including the security guard. True to the word of the law (which we had checked out ahead of time) the French school system never asked us for proof of legal residency and scrupulously did not look in the visa section of our passports to see if we were here legally. While the wait was long and the day was exhausting, we were treated fairly in every way. Plus, we somehow miraculously placed ourselves in line right in between the only other English speakers in the whole place and we made new friends. It was a satisfying day in every way.
That was good. This was not. Later that evening, through researching the Lycee-College Francois Villon through Google, we discovered that Lycee Francois Villon is “L’un des plus mauvais lycees de France.” For you non-French speakers, “One of the worst lycees in France.” In fact, according to the article we found, in the "classement publié en janvier dernier par le magazine L’Etudiant[,] François-Villon se trouve à la 1 862e place sur 1 865 lycées passés au banc d’essai en France!" That means that out of 1,865 lycees (high schools) in France, François-Villon ranked 1,862. We also found articles quoting parents worried about the security of their kids at François-Villon.
A parental freak out ensued. What to do? Stay tuned....
Sunday, August 24, 2008
La Bonne Vie a Paris
It rained Friday in Paris, a comfortable, cool, gentle, light rain, with no wind, which made it easy and delightful to walk around the city with an umbrella. It also made for a great day for sleeping in, the clouds veiling the sun and the the rain veiling the sounds of the city. So we stayed in bed a long time, then got up and drank coffee and watched the Olympics on French TV. (The big news here is the gold medal won by the French handball team. I'd never heard of team handball before, but it's an interesting sport to watch, sort of a combination of basketball and soccer without the feet. I kept thinking as I was watching what would happen if you had the likes of LeBron James and Kobe Bryant playing handball; I think Les Bleues would not know what hit them.) In the afternoon we went in search of a book that Will needs for his English class at Newman in Santa Rosa, a search that was difficult and ultimately fruitless, but which took us all through the picturesque quarter across the Seine from Notre Dame, charming in the rain (which cut down considerably on the tourists). We were also unsuccessful in finding Andrew new shoes (none under 50 euros appeal to him, and that's a nonstarter as far as Dad is concerned), but nevertheless we had a very relaxing, enjoyable rainy day.
Saturday was wonderful. The morning arrived sunny, the rain having passed through during the night and left in its place a cool, fresh, clean, clear day that seemed just like autumn, especially because, two months after the summer equinox, the sun is lower now in the sky, casting longer shadows even in midday. But more even than the weather, Saturday was wonderful because (1) we accomplished something pretty cool in the morning and (2) we had an excellent excursion around Paris -- sans enfants! -- in the afternoon.
The cool thing we did in the morning involved our television. Our apartment came with a TV that has a pathetically tiny screen. It was so small, and the sound coming out of it was so bad, that watching TV had become a chore; you couldn't seem to get close enough to it to really see anything. So we had for a week or so been looking for a used TV, mostly on the Paris 'Craigslist' site (yes, there is one, it's here). Early on Friday morning I had gone on the site and, voila, there was a brand new listing for someone selling a used 19 inch color TV for 25 euros. I e-mailed the guy, he called me right back, and I arranged to come to his apartment in the 7th arrondissement at 11:00 a.m. to pick it up.
But we had a problem -- a transport problem or, rather, a lack-of-transport problem. It would be possible to carry the TV onto the Metro and transport it that way, but that would be difficult (especially with the stairs and the small turnstyles) and would look stupid also. But I came up with a solution -- I thought that a 19 inch TV would just fit into one of our larger soft-sided suitcases, which had a set of wheels on one end that we could use to roll the TV around rather than carry it. I also concluded that if push came to shove, we could simply take a taxi back, and avoid the difficulty of carting the TV into and out of the Metro.
So we set off for the 7th, on a glorious, glorious morning, arriving at the apartment (a gorgeous building in an upscale part of Paris, which lessed considerably our concern that we might be dealing with stolen property [also, as Suzie pointed out, the TV came with its instruction manual, which negates the possibility of a theft, unless the theves were very, very good indeed]). We called the seller and he came down several minutes later with the TV, which, although bigger than I thought it would be, did in fact just barely fit into the bag with the wheels on it. However, it was immediately evident that the Metro wasn't going to happen; the TV was just too heavy and too unwieldy in the bag. But, I had also located ahead of time the nearest taxi stand, which was only 3 blocks away, so we wheeled the bag with the TV in it, me on one side and Suzie on the other, down the Parisian sidewalks, drawing not as many looks as we would have expected. There were taxis waiting at the taxi stand (even though you hear constantly about the dearth of taxis in Paris), and the trip back to our apartment was quick and cheap -- 7.50 euros. We took the TV up the elevator (which at first we thought might be non-operational yet again), hooked it up to the Livebox, plugged it in, and got it to work. The picture is great, the sound is great, and we were very satisfied with ourselves for having acquired something that will greatly improve our remaining time here for 32.50 euros.
The boys wanted to go off on their own, so we gave them Metro tickets and sent them on their way (Andrew skateboarding, Will filming). This left the afternoon -- the sunny, cool, bright afternoon -- to me and Suzie alone, so we decided to randomly explore an area of Paris that we'd never seen before. On the Metro at Denfert-Rochereau, off the Metro at Reaumur-Sebastopol, we walked north toward the 10th, through a neighborhood that seemed to be somewhat transitional. We saw unexpected things: an oversized arch monument, a pretty church on a hill.
On our way to the latter, we stopped in a small restaurant and had a pleasant, slow lunch (pesto pizza for me, simple but delicious, a salad for Suzie, not the best, too much dressing). And the entire time, we were speaking in French, or at least we were using French words all the time (a Frenchman overhearing us might have a cause of action against us for our gross violations against his native language). A very good exercise, enjoyable also, and we were able (remarkably) to communicate quite a bit.
After lunch, we walked southwest, though a very pretty neighborhood.
On our way, we saw something that I'd noticed a number of times before, but never understood. Often when walking around Paris, there would be times when there would be water gushing out of metallic openings on the curb, then running down the gutter.
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I always thought that it was some sort of unintentional overflow, but on Saturday I found its purpose. This is the way the sidewalks get cleaned! The worker sweeps debris over the curb, into the running water, which carries it away who-knows-where.
Now in defense of the Ville de Paris, there seems to be no shortage of water around here, and it should be noted that the label on the outlet on the curb says "Eau Non Potable" (and where does that come from?). But still, it seems a strange way to clean the sidewalks.
As we continued our walk, we saw a couple of other strange things. This, for instance:
Suzie and I couldn't decide if this box-on-stilts was replacement housing for the residents of the building (my idea) or housing and construction-space for the workers on the project (Suzie's idea), but in either case I haven't seen anything like this before.
Then there was this sign -- the Milk House!
We ended our trip at another pretty place we'd never seen -- the Place d'Estienne d'Ovres, and its green, wooded plaza surrounding the Trinity Church.
That ended our very pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Suzie and I both ended the day very happy, thinking that we have a very good life in Paris. At least on this day.
Saturday was wonderful. The morning arrived sunny, the rain having passed through during the night and left in its place a cool, fresh, clean, clear day that seemed just like autumn, especially because, two months after the summer equinox, the sun is lower now in the sky, casting longer shadows even in midday. But more even than the weather, Saturday was wonderful because (1) we accomplished something pretty cool in the morning and (2) we had an excellent excursion around Paris -- sans enfants! -- in the afternoon.
The cool thing we did in the morning involved our television. Our apartment came with a TV that has a pathetically tiny screen. It was so small, and the sound coming out of it was so bad, that watching TV had become a chore; you couldn't seem to get close enough to it to really see anything. So we had for a week or so been looking for a used TV, mostly on the Paris 'Craigslist' site (yes, there is one, it's here). Early on Friday morning I had gone on the site and, voila, there was a brand new listing for someone selling a used 19 inch color TV for 25 euros. I e-mailed the guy, he called me right back, and I arranged to come to his apartment in the 7th arrondissement at 11:00 a.m. to pick it up.
But we had a problem -- a transport problem or, rather, a lack-of-transport problem. It would be possible to carry the TV onto the Metro and transport it that way, but that would be difficult (especially with the stairs and the small turnstyles) and would look stupid also. But I came up with a solution -- I thought that a 19 inch TV would just fit into one of our larger soft-sided suitcases, which had a set of wheels on one end that we could use to roll the TV around rather than carry it. I also concluded that if push came to shove, we could simply take a taxi back, and avoid the difficulty of carting the TV into and out of the Metro.
So we set off for the 7th, on a glorious, glorious morning, arriving at the apartment (a gorgeous building in an upscale part of Paris, which lessed considerably our concern that we might be dealing with stolen property [also, as Suzie pointed out, the TV came with its instruction manual, which negates the possibility of a theft, unless the theves were very, very good indeed]). We called the seller and he came down several minutes later with the TV, which, although bigger than I thought it would be, did in fact just barely fit into the bag with the wheels on it. However, it was immediately evident that the Metro wasn't going to happen; the TV was just too heavy and too unwieldy in the bag. But, I had also located ahead of time the nearest taxi stand, which was only 3 blocks away, so we wheeled the bag with the TV in it, me on one side and Suzie on the other, down the Parisian sidewalks, drawing not as many looks as we would have expected. There were taxis waiting at the taxi stand (even though you hear constantly about the dearth of taxis in Paris), and the trip back to our apartment was quick and cheap -- 7.50 euros. We took the TV up the elevator (which at first we thought might be non-operational yet again), hooked it up to the Livebox, plugged it in, and got it to work. The picture is great, the sound is great, and we were very satisfied with ourselves for having acquired something that will greatly improve our remaining time here for 32.50 euros.
The boys wanted to go off on their own, so we gave them Metro tickets and sent them on their way (Andrew skateboarding, Will filming). This left the afternoon -- the sunny, cool, bright afternoon -- to me and Suzie alone, so we decided to randomly explore an area of Paris that we'd never seen before. On the Metro at Denfert-Rochereau, off the Metro at Reaumur-Sebastopol, we walked north toward the 10th, through a neighborhood that seemed to be somewhat transitional. We saw unexpected things: an oversized arch monument, a pretty church on a hill.
On our way to the latter, we stopped in a small restaurant and had a pleasant, slow lunch (pesto pizza for me, simple but delicious, a salad for Suzie, not the best, too much dressing). And the entire time, we were speaking in French, or at least we were using French words all the time (a Frenchman overhearing us might have a cause of action against us for our gross violations against his native language). A very good exercise, enjoyable also, and we were able (remarkably) to communicate quite a bit.
After lunch, we walked southwest, though a very pretty neighborhood.
On our way, we saw something that I'd noticed a number of times before, but never understood. Often when walking around Paris, there would be times when there would be water gushing out of metallic openings on the curb, then running down the gutter.
<
I always thought that it was some sort of unintentional overflow, but on Saturday I found its purpose. This is the way the sidewalks get cleaned! The worker sweeps debris over the curb, into the running water, which carries it away who-knows-where.
Now in defense of the Ville de Paris, there seems to be no shortage of water around here, and it should be noted that the label on the outlet on the curb says "Eau Non Potable" (and where does that come from?). But still, it seems a strange way to clean the sidewalks.
As we continued our walk, we saw a couple of other strange things. This, for instance:
Suzie and I couldn't decide if this box-on-stilts was replacement housing for the residents of the building (my idea) or housing and construction-space for the workers on the project (Suzie's idea), but in either case I haven't seen anything like this before.
Then there was this sign -- the Milk House!
We ended our trip at another pretty place we'd never seen -- the Place d'Estienne d'Ovres, and its green, wooded plaza surrounding the Trinity Church.
That ended our very pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Suzie and I both ended the day very happy, thinking that we have a very good life in Paris. At least on this day.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Road Rant (Warning, Some Political Commentary Included)
We're back in Paris after two great weeks in and around Toulouse, during which time we put a fair amount of kilometers on our hosts' car. (As an aside, our car in Toulouse was a Citroen C4 Picasso, with a diesel engine, and after driving it I will certainly consider a diesel engine for my next car. Diesel engines are more reliable and get terrific mileage per gallon -- during our entire time in Toulouse, which included a ton of driving, we spent just a little over 120 euros for fuel; every time we filled up we were surprised at how little fuel we needed. The downside is that diesels are more expensive, and used to emit more pollution (although it appears that they also emit less CO2 -- a good comparison article is here.)
As I was saying, we drove many, many kilometers during those two weeks, the vast majority of it on very small roads, denominated in the French system as "D" routes, minor roads that run between small villages or that are not the main route between bigger cities. These roads were often narrow and without shoulders, but they were, almost without exception, in excellent condition, with smooth surfaces that were a pleasure to drive. As I drove these wonderful roads, I kept asking myself -- "Why can't roads in California be like this?" If you drive the equivalent small roads in California, your car (and your body) will be battered by the usually horrible condition of the roads. Maintenance seems to consist of throwing loose asphalt into holes (converting a jarring hole into a jarring bump) and putting up "rough road" signs (actually, there aren't any of those; everyone knows the roads are rough).
But I think I know the answer to the question "Why can't roads in California be like this," and the answer is fundamentally a political one. For better or worse, the French are willing to pay the taxes necessary to allow the government to construct and maintain good roads, and Californians are not. The necessary implication is that the French place a higher priority on their roads (and other government-run, public things) than Californians do. Why this should be is a question you could spend days discussing, but I've not got that amount of time (actually, I do, but I prefer to spend it other ways), so I'll give you the answer (actually, three answers) that I came up with somewhere between Cahors and Toulouse.
The first answer is that the French trust their government (and their fellow citizens) more than Californians do. It isn't that Californians wouldn't pay for better roads if they could be absolutely certain that the money they paid to the government would go towards constructing better roads. It's that enough Californians believe (rightly or wrongly) that the government will either piss away any tax money it gets rather than spending it correctly on road maintenance, or will choose to spend the money on things other than road maintenance (like supporting "deadbeats"). The French are willing to spend some money to support "deadbeats" (knowing each of them, or their parents, or their friends, might be a "deadbeat" themselves someday), and willing to have the government piss away a little bit of tax money (no large organization being completely efficient) in order to preserve the public space -- roads in good shape, parks in good shape, pretty flowers hanging from baskets along village streets -- as a necessary part of "le bonheur." For most Californians, "le bonheur" has nothing to do with the government, thank you very much; I'll find my own bonheur and the rest of you can go find yours, or not. Obviously I exaggerate here, but the gist of what I'm saying is, I think, true (although I note in defense of the "go find yours or not" folks that this outlook probably also produces greater diversity and greater individual freedoms).
The second answer is that institutional constraints in California are such that even if you suddenly populated California with Les Francaises, you would have a hard time ending up with well-maintained roads. Proposition 13's limitation on the ability of local government to raise taxes, and the California constitution's requirement of two-thirds approval for a budget, together serve to almost guarantee a "bare bones" government -- the substantial minority that completely distrusts government has a veto.
The third answer has to do, of all things, with the idea of patriotism. The appropriation and subsequent distortion (I think) of the notion of patriotism by the far right is very sad. I love America so much that I think I'll let her bridges and roads crumble, her public spaces decay, her public universities shrink, so long as we have a kick-ass army, navy, and air force. When has distrust and disdain for the government and the public sphere become a sign of patriotism?
The far left must take its share of the blame, too. Its disdain of the middle class and its values, its blind insistance on process (the subject of a later post, I think), its constant evocation of class warfare (we'll fix no road so long as any American goes to bed hungry), has created, along with the far right, a void in the political middle. To the far left, the very notion of "patriotism" is anathema; pride in your country is something only country bumpkins feel, not intellectuals. Neither the far left nor the far right has a place in its political philosophy for the kind of pride in the everyday public sphere that creates smooth, well-maintained roads.
For someone like me, a pretty much down-the-middle moderate, it's hard for me to say that I think California needs to be little more like France, but that is my conclusion. I don't particularly distrust my fellow citizens, and I don't particularly distrust the government, and I don't particularly trust them either, but I do trust the ability of a properly-functioning political system to correct itself. And I must say that I've come to the conclusion that the blind, "starve-government-at-all-costs" drone of the far right has acquired too much power, at least in California. Do away with the two-thirds budget requirement in California, and what will happen -- yes, taxes will go up for a time, but if they go up too much, there will be a reaction. In the meantime, maybe some of the roads will be properly paved.
I'm not so naive to think that France is a paradise; it has its own problems (among them, the striking absence of its minority populations in even low- and mid-level positions in government and business, and the apparent lack of recognition that this is a problem; the rigidity of its employment and business regulations; and the decline in its university system). But the roads are smooth, the parks are clean and beautiful, and people seem happy and, even more, proud of their country in a reasonable, understated way.
As I was saying, we drove many, many kilometers during those two weeks, the vast majority of it on very small roads, denominated in the French system as "D" routes, minor roads that run between small villages or that are not the main route between bigger cities. These roads were often narrow and without shoulders, but they were, almost without exception, in excellent condition, with smooth surfaces that were a pleasure to drive. As I drove these wonderful roads, I kept asking myself -- "Why can't roads in California be like this?" If you drive the equivalent small roads in California, your car (and your body) will be battered by the usually horrible condition of the roads. Maintenance seems to consist of throwing loose asphalt into holes (converting a jarring hole into a jarring bump) and putting up "rough road" signs (actually, there aren't any of those; everyone knows the roads are rough).
But I think I know the answer to the question "Why can't roads in California be like this," and the answer is fundamentally a political one. For better or worse, the French are willing to pay the taxes necessary to allow the government to construct and maintain good roads, and Californians are not. The necessary implication is that the French place a higher priority on their roads (and other government-run, public things) than Californians do. Why this should be is a question you could spend days discussing, but I've not got that amount of time (actually, I do, but I prefer to spend it other ways), so I'll give you the answer (actually, three answers) that I came up with somewhere between Cahors and Toulouse.
The first answer is that the French trust their government (and their fellow citizens) more than Californians do. It isn't that Californians wouldn't pay for better roads if they could be absolutely certain that the money they paid to the government would go towards constructing better roads. It's that enough Californians believe (rightly or wrongly) that the government will either piss away any tax money it gets rather than spending it correctly on road maintenance, or will choose to spend the money on things other than road maintenance (like supporting "deadbeats"). The French are willing to spend some money to support "deadbeats" (knowing each of them, or their parents, or their friends, might be a "deadbeat" themselves someday), and willing to have the government piss away a little bit of tax money (no large organization being completely efficient) in order to preserve the public space -- roads in good shape, parks in good shape, pretty flowers hanging from baskets along village streets -- as a necessary part of "le bonheur." For most Californians, "le bonheur" has nothing to do with the government, thank you very much; I'll find my own bonheur and the rest of you can go find yours, or not. Obviously I exaggerate here, but the gist of what I'm saying is, I think, true (although I note in defense of the "go find yours or not" folks that this outlook probably also produces greater diversity and greater individual freedoms).
The second answer is that institutional constraints in California are such that even if you suddenly populated California with Les Francaises, you would have a hard time ending up with well-maintained roads. Proposition 13's limitation on the ability of local government to raise taxes, and the California constitution's requirement of two-thirds approval for a budget, together serve to almost guarantee a "bare bones" government -- the substantial minority that completely distrusts government has a veto.
The third answer has to do, of all things, with the idea of patriotism. The appropriation and subsequent distortion (I think) of the notion of patriotism by the far right is very sad. I love America so much that I think I'll let her bridges and roads crumble, her public spaces decay, her public universities shrink, so long as we have a kick-ass army, navy, and air force. When has distrust and disdain for the government and the public sphere become a sign of patriotism?
The far left must take its share of the blame, too. Its disdain of the middle class and its values, its blind insistance on process (the subject of a later post, I think), its constant evocation of class warfare (we'll fix no road so long as any American goes to bed hungry), has created, along with the far right, a void in the political middle. To the far left, the very notion of "patriotism" is anathema; pride in your country is something only country bumpkins feel, not intellectuals. Neither the far left nor the far right has a place in its political philosophy for the kind of pride in the everyday public sphere that creates smooth, well-maintained roads.
For someone like me, a pretty much down-the-middle moderate, it's hard for me to say that I think California needs to be little more like France, but that is my conclusion. I don't particularly distrust my fellow citizens, and I don't particularly distrust the government, and I don't particularly trust them either, but I do trust the ability of a properly-functioning political system to correct itself. And I must say that I've come to the conclusion that the blind, "starve-government-at-all-costs" drone of the far right has acquired too much power, at least in California. Do away with the two-thirds budget requirement in California, and what will happen -- yes, taxes will go up for a time, but if they go up too much, there will be a reaction. In the meantime, maybe some of the roads will be properly paved.
I'm not so naive to think that France is a paradise; it has its own problems (among them, the striking absence of its minority populations in even low- and mid-level positions in government and business, and the apparent lack of recognition that this is a problem; the rigidity of its employment and business regulations; and the decline in its university system). But the roads are smooth, the parks are clean and beautiful, and people seem happy and, even more, proud of their country in a reasonable, understated way.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Our Incredible Trip to Cajarc
As mentioned, Suzie's father is close friends with a French couple (Francoise and Catherine Recanati) who have a summer house in a small village called Cajarc in the region called Lot. They invited us to stay with them for a night so that we could meet them and explore the surrounding region. So on Tuesday we drove to Cajarc, heading north from Toulouse. We noticed once we got off the autoroute that the countryside was very different -- much hillier and much more heavily forested. But we were not prepared for what we discovered when we arrived at Cajarc.
The village sits on the River Lot, which has cut a deep gorge through the countryside. You thus have to descend to enter Cajarc, and the approach affords a remarkable view of the village and its surroundings.
We'd been given the address of the house, and told that it was in the middle of the village, across from the post office and the mairie, at number 27. What we found at number 27 was not a house, but rather a very old, very large, very beautiful stone chateau. A few photos of the exterior are below, but they do not really do justice to the house (or, I should say, to the compound, since the house and its appurtenant buildings and walls enclose an area equivalent to about two full US city blocks, with a large lawn and swimming pool and a entirely separate guest house).
We later learned that the house was built back in the 15th century (I think that's right) and was originally a convent for nuns. At the time of the French revolution, it was seized by the state and sold to a prominent local family, who held title to the house until fairly recently, when it was sold to a third party who then sold it to the mother of Mr. Recanati.
We rather hesitantly walked to the front gate (not really a gate, but two huge old thick wooden doors) and pulled the chain for the bell. In a minute Catherine greeted us and brought us into the house. As impressive as the house was from the outside, it was even more so from the inside: old stone and tile floors; very high, arched stone ceilings; dark, dark wooden panels; large rooms; an enormous, elegant stone stairway to the second floor.
Behind the house, protected by a wing of the compound to the east and a rock wall to the south and west, is a vast lawn, with trees, vines, and a large swimming pool. After we put our stuff into our rooms, we were treated to a delicious lunch (quiche) outside on the lawn, under a trellis overgrown with honeysuckle vines. The day was warm and clear and we were very content and happy.
The Racantis have a 17-year-old son, a quiet but delightful young man, who soon turned Will and Andrew on to an unusual local activity -- jumping off the suspension bridge over the River Lot. This is no small feat, as the bridge is fairly high above the river (it is safe because there is a dam not far downstream, which makes the water deep where the bridge crosses over). This give you an idea of the height:
And here are Will and Andrew in free fall:
Interesting to note the different strategies employed; Will goes for the "maximum drag" strategy, spreading himself out like a flying squirrel to try to slow his speed, while Andrew goes for the "minimum impact" strategy, making himself as small as possible so as to split the water like a needle when he its it.
Suzie and I walked around the village for a while, down narrow, narrow streets that have not changed appreciably since medieval times.
That evening, we were treated to another wonderful meal, very simple (roast beef, pasta, bread, salad, and, treat of treats, five different kinds of cheese for dessert, including an incredible soft, fresh, locally-produced goat cheese, just perfect, and ice cream for the boys. The boys eventually went out with Antoine (the 17-year-old son; they had a ball and stayed out until after midnight), and we went out with the Recanatis to a cafe, which had tables set out in a plaza right next to the river, where we ran into another woman who was a linguist and also knew Suzie's father, who joined us. So we sat there and watched a new moon rise over the hills and the river, the evening warm and soft, speaking and listening to French and marveling from time to time at how we somehow managed to arrange everything so that we ended up here at this place, here at this time, enjoying the quiet and the conversation, and watching the darkness fall.
Neither of us slept well that night; the room was too large, and perhaps too austere, for us to feel comfortable. We got up, and got the kids up, early, as we had been told of two things in the area that we had to see: The village of Saint Cirq Lapopie, set on rocks high above the Lot, and the Grotte de Pech Merle, a large cave containing prehistoric cave paintings. Access to the latter is restricted, and it is usually necessary to have a reservation to get it, but it was raining and we hoped that some people with reservations would not show up so that we could get in. So we drove there first, arriving at about 10:25, and by 10:35 we were starting the tour! Very lucky.
Suzie and I agree that the Grotte de Pech Merle is one of the most amazing places we've ever been. In addition to the shear natural beauty of the cave itself, the cave paintings -- 20,000 to 30,000 year old -- were remarkable to see. Very, very humbling, in a way. I was especially taken by the simple hand prints that the artists had made on the wall, sending a very human message down through tens of thousands of years. At one point, you can see, very very distinctly, the footprints of several of the cave explorers, made more than 10,000 year ago. This visit was absolutely the highlight of our trip. For those interested in seeing the cave paintings and the other sights in the cave, there is an excellent English web site here.
From the cave, we drove back along the Lot to Saint Cirq Lapopie, a beautiful drive along sheer cliffs cut out by the river. This video gives a flavor. In places, houses are constructed right between the road and the cliff, using the solid rock of the cliff as their back walls.
[youtube=http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=2KN63o8RWGk]
As mentioned, Saint Cirq Lapopie sits on a rock outcropping high above the Lot.
To get to the town, you have to follow a narrow road up and up and up, then park in a lot. It is a bit touristy, but worth the crowds. We were getting hungry when we arrived, and we had been given a recommendation of a place to eat lunch, so we sought out the restaurant and, lucky again, were immediately seated on the terrace, with a view of the green hills. The lunch was outstanding (I know, you're tired of hearing about food, but it was so good). Suzie had a foie gras salad, with foie gras that actually melted in your mouth; the boys had a menu with salad, potatoes, and wonderful duck, and I had a menu with jambon salad (ham like proscuitto but not quite, very delicious), an entrecote steak (the most delicious I've had in France so far, tender, delicious, and perfectly cooked), and three wonderful desserts (a nut tart for me, fruit mousse for Will, and ice cream for Andrew). The service was a little slow, but the food was so good and the setting so comfortable that we didn't much care.
After lunch we explored the small village. It consists of old stone houses on narrow, seemingly random streets. At its highest point, it offers a stunning view of the Lot and the narrow valley formed by it.
We went back to Cajarc before returning to Toulouse, because the boys wanted to spend a bit more time with their new friend; Suzie and I drank coffee and had a conversation with Catherine about the French university system and its troubles. At about six we started home, and arrived in Toulouse dead tired.
As usual, there are more pictures here.
Lest you think our lives are nothing but leisure, today we've spent most of the day giving our house here in Aigrefeuille a thorough cleaning, as we are leaving tomorrow morning to return to Paris. Suzie and I will really miss this area -- it is pretty and rural and calm, yet close to a big city.
Finally, I give you three events that somehow fell through the blog cracks.
1. On one of our first days here, we went to a creperie in Toulouse for lunch, and all got the menu, which was a galotte (a type of fried bread, kind of like a pancake, folded over an egg, ham, and cheese), a crepe, and a drink. The house drink was an apple cider, which the boys wanted to taste, but which we thought would be alcoholic. Well, it was quite alcoholic, but the waitress poo-pooed the idea that the boys couldn't drink it, so they went ahead and ordered it. It came in a huge cup, which Will knocked back and Andrew slowly sipped. We later found out it was about 4% alcohol, which is, I think, more than is in beer in some states.
2. The parents of the wife of the couple we exchanged houses with took us out one evening to a very nice restaurant in downtown Toulouse, an treated us to a Toulousian meal, which was fois gras (excellent; birds must fear for their livers constantly here), cassolet (which is sausage, duck, and white beans in an incredibly rich sauce; recipe here), and dessert (mine was called a "Norwegian Sundae," which I had never heard of, but which is described here). When the bill came, they insisted on paying it, even though we wanted to split it. They just wanted to treat us. Afterwards we followed them in their car as they gave us a brief driving tour of Toulouse at night. The evening was very enjoyable and companionable, the only difficulty for us being that the Toulouse accent is difficult for us to understand.
3. And how, you may ask, is our French? It's been difficult being with the kids all the time, because they are speaking (constantly, incessantly, it seems) in English, so even though we are in France it sometimes feels like we might as well be in California, language-wise. But slowly we notice that we are getting better. Last weekend we went to a movie in French (a quite good one, called L'Empreinte De L'Ange, with two excellent French actresses, Catherine Frot and Sandrinne Bonnaire), and I was able to follow along with the plot quite well, and even hit about a 30 minute stretch where it seemed I could effortlessly understand everything, which, when I noticed it, immediately ended. I also have fewer "deer in the headlight" moments, when someone will say something to me (at a store, for example), and I will have absolutely no idea what they are saying. That happens almost never now. Finally, we've had to watch the Olympics on French TV, with French announcers (who, incidentally, are much, much, much more "hometown" in their coverage than U.S. announcers), and I've been able to follow most of it pretty well (except for things like fencing, which I don't understand anyway). I'm looking forward to getting back to Paris and studying more intensely again.
That's it for now; it's evening and we've a plane to catch in the morning. Next dispatch, from Paris....
The village sits on the River Lot, which has cut a deep gorge through the countryside. You thus have to descend to enter Cajarc, and the approach affords a remarkable view of the village and its surroundings.
We'd been given the address of the house, and told that it was in the middle of the village, across from the post office and the mairie, at number 27. What we found at number 27 was not a house, but rather a very old, very large, very beautiful stone chateau. A few photos of the exterior are below, but they do not really do justice to the house (or, I should say, to the compound, since the house and its appurtenant buildings and walls enclose an area equivalent to about two full US city blocks, with a large lawn and swimming pool and a entirely separate guest house).
We later learned that the house was built back in the 15th century (I think that's right) and was originally a convent for nuns. At the time of the French revolution, it was seized by the state and sold to a prominent local family, who held title to the house until fairly recently, when it was sold to a third party who then sold it to the mother of Mr. Recanati.
We rather hesitantly walked to the front gate (not really a gate, but two huge old thick wooden doors) and pulled the chain for the bell. In a minute Catherine greeted us and brought us into the house. As impressive as the house was from the outside, it was even more so from the inside: old stone and tile floors; very high, arched stone ceilings; dark, dark wooden panels; large rooms; an enormous, elegant stone stairway to the second floor.
Behind the house, protected by a wing of the compound to the east and a rock wall to the south and west, is a vast lawn, with trees, vines, and a large swimming pool. After we put our stuff into our rooms, we were treated to a delicious lunch (quiche) outside on the lawn, under a trellis overgrown with honeysuckle vines. The day was warm and clear and we were very content and happy.
The Racantis have a 17-year-old son, a quiet but delightful young man, who soon turned Will and Andrew on to an unusual local activity -- jumping off the suspension bridge over the River Lot. This is no small feat, as the bridge is fairly high above the river (it is safe because there is a dam not far downstream, which makes the water deep where the bridge crosses over). This give you an idea of the height:
And here are Will and Andrew in free fall:
Interesting to note the different strategies employed; Will goes for the "maximum drag" strategy, spreading himself out like a flying squirrel to try to slow his speed, while Andrew goes for the "minimum impact" strategy, making himself as small as possible so as to split the water like a needle when he its it.
Suzie and I walked around the village for a while, down narrow, narrow streets that have not changed appreciably since medieval times.
That evening, we were treated to another wonderful meal, very simple (roast beef, pasta, bread, salad, and, treat of treats, five different kinds of cheese for dessert, including an incredible soft, fresh, locally-produced goat cheese, just perfect, and ice cream for the boys. The boys eventually went out with Antoine (the 17-year-old son; they had a ball and stayed out until after midnight), and we went out with the Recanatis to a cafe, which had tables set out in a plaza right next to the river, where we ran into another woman who was a linguist and also knew Suzie's father, who joined us. So we sat there and watched a new moon rise over the hills and the river, the evening warm and soft, speaking and listening to French and marveling from time to time at how we somehow managed to arrange everything so that we ended up here at this place, here at this time, enjoying the quiet and the conversation, and watching the darkness fall.
Neither of us slept well that night; the room was too large, and perhaps too austere, for us to feel comfortable. We got up, and got the kids up, early, as we had been told of two things in the area that we had to see: The village of Saint Cirq Lapopie, set on rocks high above the Lot, and the Grotte de Pech Merle, a large cave containing prehistoric cave paintings. Access to the latter is restricted, and it is usually necessary to have a reservation to get it, but it was raining and we hoped that some people with reservations would not show up so that we could get in. So we drove there first, arriving at about 10:25, and by 10:35 we were starting the tour! Very lucky.
Suzie and I agree that the Grotte de Pech Merle is one of the most amazing places we've ever been. In addition to the shear natural beauty of the cave itself, the cave paintings -- 20,000 to 30,000 year old -- were remarkable to see. Very, very humbling, in a way. I was especially taken by the simple hand prints that the artists had made on the wall, sending a very human message down through tens of thousands of years. At one point, you can see, very very distinctly, the footprints of several of the cave explorers, made more than 10,000 year ago. This visit was absolutely the highlight of our trip. For those interested in seeing the cave paintings and the other sights in the cave, there is an excellent English web site here.
From the cave, we drove back along the Lot to Saint Cirq Lapopie, a beautiful drive along sheer cliffs cut out by the river. This video gives a flavor. In places, houses are constructed right between the road and the cliff, using the solid rock of the cliff as their back walls.
[youtube=http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=2KN63o8RWGk]
As mentioned, Saint Cirq Lapopie sits on a rock outcropping high above the Lot.
To get to the town, you have to follow a narrow road up and up and up, then park in a lot. It is a bit touristy, but worth the crowds. We were getting hungry when we arrived, and we had been given a recommendation of a place to eat lunch, so we sought out the restaurant and, lucky again, were immediately seated on the terrace, with a view of the green hills. The lunch was outstanding (I know, you're tired of hearing about food, but it was so good). Suzie had a foie gras salad, with foie gras that actually melted in your mouth; the boys had a menu with salad, potatoes, and wonderful duck, and I had a menu with jambon salad (ham like proscuitto but not quite, very delicious), an entrecote steak (the most delicious I've had in France so far, tender, delicious, and perfectly cooked), and three wonderful desserts (a nut tart for me, fruit mousse for Will, and ice cream for Andrew). The service was a little slow, but the food was so good and the setting so comfortable that we didn't much care.
After lunch we explored the small village. It consists of old stone houses on narrow, seemingly random streets. At its highest point, it offers a stunning view of the Lot and the narrow valley formed by it.
We went back to Cajarc before returning to Toulouse, because the boys wanted to spend a bit more time with their new friend; Suzie and I drank coffee and had a conversation with Catherine about the French university system and its troubles. At about six we started home, and arrived in Toulouse dead tired.
As usual, there are more pictures here.
Lest you think our lives are nothing but leisure, today we've spent most of the day giving our house here in Aigrefeuille a thorough cleaning, as we are leaving tomorrow morning to return to Paris. Suzie and I will really miss this area -- it is pretty and rural and calm, yet close to a big city.
Finally, I give you three events that somehow fell through the blog cracks.
1. On one of our first days here, we went to a creperie in Toulouse for lunch, and all got the menu, which was a galotte (a type of fried bread, kind of like a pancake, folded over an egg, ham, and cheese), a crepe, and a drink. The house drink was an apple cider, which the boys wanted to taste, but which we thought would be alcoholic. Well, it was quite alcoholic, but the waitress poo-pooed the idea that the boys couldn't drink it, so they went ahead and ordered it. It came in a huge cup, which Will knocked back and Andrew slowly sipped. We later found out it was about 4% alcohol, which is, I think, more than is in beer in some states.
2. The parents of the wife of the couple we exchanged houses with took us out one evening to a very nice restaurant in downtown Toulouse, an treated us to a Toulousian meal, which was fois gras (excellent; birds must fear for their livers constantly here), cassolet (which is sausage, duck, and white beans in an incredibly rich sauce; recipe here), and dessert (mine was called a "Norwegian Sundae," which I had never heard of, but which is described here). When the bill came, they insisted on paying it, even though we wanted to split it. They just wanted to treat us. Afterwards we followed them in their car as they gave us a brief driving tour of Toulouse at night. The evening was very enjoyable and companionable, the only difficulty for us being that the Toulouse accent is difficult for us to understand.
3. And how, you may ask, is our French? It's been difficult being with the kids all the time, because they are speaking (constantly, incessantly, it seems) in English, so even though we are in France it sometimes feels like we might as well be in California, language-wise. But slowly we notice that we are getting better. Last weekend we went to a movie in French (a quite good one, called L'Empreinte De L'Ange, with two excellent French actresses, Catherine Frot and Sandrinne Bonnaire), and I was able to follow along with the plot quite well, and even hit about a 30 minute stretch where it seemed I could effortlessly understand everything, which, when I noticed it, immediately ended. I also have fewer "deer in the headlight" moments, when someone will say something to me (at a store, for example), and I will have absolutely no idea what they are saying. That happens almost never now. Finally, we've had to watch the Olympics on French TV, with French announcers (who, incidentally, are much, much, much more "hometown" in their coverage than U.S. announcers), and I've been able to follow most of it pretty well (except for things like fencing, which I don't understand anyway). I'm looking forward to getting back to Paris and studying more intensely again.
That's it for now; it's evening and we've a plane to catch in the morning. Next dispatch, from Paris....
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Another Trip Today
We are heading off this morning to some friends of Suzie's father, who live in a little town called Cajarc, a couple of hours away. Our route today:
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&saddr=23,+All%C3%A9e+des+Pyr%C3%A9n%C3%A9es,+31280+Aigrefeuille&daddr=Cajarc,+Lot,+Midi-Pyr%C3%A9n%C3%A9es,+France&hl=en&geocode=&mra=ls&sll=44.024422,1.576538&sspn=1.726012,4.943848&ie=UTF8&s=AARTsJr1yDq8HDybpF_12X81L1tSzMy2aQ&ll=44.024422,1.576538&spn=1.89591,3.515625&z=8&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
Yesterday we had a needed "off" day, where we just hung out at home, went for a long walk in the countryside, played tennis, swam, read, did laundry, ate a great improvised Suzie lunch (watermelon, cantaloupe, fresh just-picked tomatoes from the garden, fois gras [the grocery store brand, 3 euros for a small can, absolutely delicious], fresh baguette, two kinds of cheese, and sausage), blogged, and generally rested. Today is an absolutely gorgeous morning, with an almost-full moon hanging low in a dark blue sky, the air so perfectly clear that we can see the Pyrenees far to the south.
We are going to miss this place in Aigrefeuille. I wasn't going to post the following, but for the sake of the misguided cat-lovers out there (you know who you are...), I give you a picture of Suzie and our housemate Reglisse, along with a very cute video my son Andrew made (excuse the burp half-way through, it's him, not me). The video gives some sense of the place we're staying, but mostly it is about the cat.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baf-k9r7JEA]
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&saddr=23,+All%C3%A9e+des+Pyr%C3%A9n%C3%A9es,+31280+Aigrefeuille&daddr=Cajarc,+Lot,+Midi-Pyr%C3%A9n%C3%A9es,+France&hl=en&geocode=&mra=ls&sll=44.024422,1.576538&sspn=1.726012,4.943848&ie=UTF8&s=AARTsJr1yDq8HDybpF_12X81L1tSzMy2aQ&ll=44.024422,1.576538&spn=1.89591,3.515625&z=8&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
Yesterday we had a needed "off" day, where we just hung out at home, went for a long walk in the countryside, played tennis, swam, read, did laundry, ate a great improvised Suzie lunch (watermelon, cantaloupe, fresh just-picked tomatoes from the garden, fois gras [the grocery store brand, 3 euros for a small can, absolutely delicious], fresh baguette, two kinds of cheese, and sausage), blogged, and generally rested. Today is an absolutely gorgeous morning, with an almost-full moon hanging low in a dark blue sky, the air so perfectly clear that we can see the Pyrenees far to the south.
We are going to miss this place in Aigrefeuille. I wasn't going to post the following, but for the sake of the misguided cat-lovers out there (you know who you are...), I give you a picture of Suzie and our housemate Reglisse, along with a very cute video my son Andrew made (excuse the burp half-way through, it's him, not me). The video gives some sense of the place we're staying, but mostly it is about the cat.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baf-k9r7JEA]
A Quick Trip to the Pyrenees
We had a free day yesterday (I know, don't laugh, your perspective changes on a long vacation, I suppose the word I should have used was "unscheduled"), so we decided to take a quick drive up to the Pyrenees, which on the map look to be less than an hour from our house. It didn't turn out that way, due to the fact that everyone with a car in France seemed to headed the same way on the A61 as we were, and when we turned on the radio in the car to get traffic info, all we heard was "bouchon, bouchon, bouchon, bouchon, bouchon," all over France, "bouchon" being the word for a "stopper" or a "cork," used commonly to describe bunched-up, stopped traffic on a road. Right after the toll booth outside of Toulouse, we were stuck in a major, major bouchon for about 10 kilometers, which frustrated me to no end, because I had actually gone on-line in the morning to the Bison Fute site (explanation here for those who haven't been reading along closely) and read that traffic was going to be bad, and could have avoided the autoroute entirely by going on smaller, local roads, but didn't. Eventually the traffic did clear up, and the autoroute south off of the A61 toward the Pyrenees was completely clear.
Very shortly after the turn south, you come over a hill and are presented with a grand view of the mountains in the distance (this photo was taken on our return, but gives a sense of the view):
Our destination was a small town called Foix, located in a scenic valley along the River Ariege.
As seems to be the case every Saturday, there was a small market going on in the center of town, with vendors selling food and other things (including some antiques that were quite interesting and beautiful). After eating a lunch that Suzie had prepared,
we walked through the market and eventually bought some bread, some cookies, and two large pieces of a walnut/caramel tart-like creation, which was sweet and tasty but defintely not low-fat.
Foix has a beautiful old chateau, which sits on a high outcropping of rock near the center of the town. It dates from about 1000, and served as the seat of power for rulers of the area for centuries. More info on the chateau can be found here. We didn't make it inside the chateau, but it was an excellent photo target, its medieval austerity contrasting with the comfortable, more modern buildings in the town itself.
After our tour of Foix, we were ready to go out into the mountains. Our trusty Michelin Green Guide said that there was an outstanding viewpoint a short drive west of Foix, at a place called the Tour Laffon, which it described as "15 minutes on foot round-trip. Follow the path to the right behind the hut at the Col de Marrous." The guide promised a "magnificent vista of the central and Ariege Pyrenees." We found the Col de Marrous, and followed the path to the right behind the hut, and were in the middle of a beautiful, dense forest of birch trees and ferns.
Unfortunately, after walking for 15 minutes, we were still in the middle of a beautiful, dense forest of birch trees and ferns, no Tour Laffon and no magnificent vista appearing. So we back-tracked to the hut, took another path to the right (following a group that seemed to know where it was going), and found ourselves on the edge of a dense forest of birch trees, with views to the south over dark green fields of ferns.
Unfortunately, after walking for 15 minutes, we again saw no Tour Laffon, and no magnificent vista, so we once again retraced our steps, passing on our way back the group we had originally started to follow. Explaining that we were looking for the Tour Laffon, they told us to descend around the restaurant (not the hut) and described how magnificent the view was. So we attempted to descend around the restaurant, but there seemed to be no path down from there, only a path up, so at this point we decided that the Tour Laffon and the magnificent vista were simply not meant to be, and gave up. The kids were complaining about having to hike for nothing, but Suzie and I were both happy to have had two fairly good hikes in beautiful spots.
We drove further up into the mountains, taking a left turn down a narrow, single-lane logging road, which eventually provided us one glorious view, but unfortunately it had begun to rain and, fearing the Citron was not the most nimble, agile vehicle on slippery, winding mountain roads, we returned to Foix, bought groceries, and drove back to Toulouse, this time on local roads, avoiding another bouchon scene.
I love driving on the narrow, winding, scenic French roads, and so yesterday I took a little video of the very last part of our trip, which is posted below. Unfortunately it is a bit long, so those of you not interested in a 5 minute drive should advance the video to the 3/4 mark, to see the last little bit of our drive (very scenic) back to our house in Aigrefeuille.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZPFH8P728A]
Very shortly after the turn south, you come over a hill and are presented with a grand view of the mountains in the distance (this photo was taken on our return, but gives a sense of the view):
Our destination was a small town called Foix, located in a scenic valley along the River Ariege.
As seems to be the case every Saturday, there was a small market going on in the center of town, with vendors selling food and other things (including some antiques that were quite interesting and beautiful). After eating a lunch that Suzie had prepared,
we walked through the market and eventually bought some bread, some cookies, and two large pieces of a walnut/caramel tart-like creation, which was sweet and tasty but defintely not low-fat.
Foix has a beautiful old chateau, which sits on a high outcropping of rock near the center of the town. It dates from about 1000, and served as the seat of power for rulers of the area for centuries. More info on the chateau can be found here. We didn't make it inside the chateau, but it was an excellent photo target, its medieval austerity contrasting with the comfortable, more modern buildings in the town itself.
After our tour of Foix, we were ready to go out into the mountains. Our trusty Michelin Green Guide said that there was an outstanding viewpoint a short drive west of Foix, at a place called the Tour Laffon, which it described as "15 minutes on foot round-trip. Follow the path to the right behind the hut at the Col de Marrous." The guide promised a "magnificent vista of the central and Ariege Pyrenees." We found the Col de Marrous, and followed the path to the right behind the hut, and were in the middle of a beautiful, dense forest of birch trees and ferns.
Unfortunately, after walking for 15 minutes, we were still in the middle of a beautiful, dense forest of birch trees and ferns, no Tour Laffon and no magnificent vista appearing. So we back-tracked to the hut, took another path to the right (following a group that seemed to know where it was going), and found ourselves on the edge of a dense forest of birch trees, with views to the south over dark green fields of ferns.
Unfortunately, after walking for 15 minutes, we again saw no Tour Laffon, and no magnificent vista, so we once again retraced our steps, passing on our way back the group we had originally started to follow. Explaining that we were looking for the Tour Laffon, they told us to descend around the restaurant (not the hut) and described how magnificent the view was. So we attempted to descend around the restaurant, but there seemed to be no path down from there, only a path up, so at this point we decided that the Tour Laffon and the magnificent vista were simply not meant to be, and gave up. The kids were complaining about having to hike for nothing, but Suzie and I were both happy to have had two fairly good hikes in beautiful spots.
We drove further up into the mountains, taking a left turn down a narrow, single-lane logging road, which eventually provided us one glorious view, but unfortunately it had begun to rain and, fearing the Citron was not the most nimble, agile vehicle on slippery, winding mountain roads, we returned to Foix, bought groceries, and drove back to Toulouse, this time on local roads, avoiding another bouchon scene.
I love driving on the narrow, winding, scenic French roads, and so yesterday I took a little video of the very last part of our trip, which is posted below. Unfortunately it is a bit long, so those of you not interested in a 5 minute drive should advance the video to the 3/4 mark, to see the last little bit of our drive (very scenic) back to our house in Aigrefeuille.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZPFH8P728A]
Friday, August 15, 2008
A Vacation From Our Vacation From Our Vacation, Day 2
We awoke on Friday and had a great (if somewhat overpriced) breakfast in the hotel, then went to see more of Narbonne. It turns out it is a very old city, having been established by the Romans during the second century B.C. It has an interesting history (which you can read here), which unfortunately has the heyday of the city occurring before the 14th century (it turns out that the city was originally on the coast, but in 1320 the harbor silted up due to severe flooding, and the River Aude, which had run through the city, changed course, leaving the city without ocean access).
The city has a remarkable old Gothic cathedral, the construction of which was begin in 1272 but never completed, due in part to a failure of the city council to give its consent to a destruction of a part of the city walls, which was necessary to the cathedral's construction. The cathedral is the third-highest Gothic cathedral in France, and contains what are regarded as the most beautiful stained glass in all of Southern France. It was one of the neatest, most interesting, most beautiful churches we've seen in France.
In addition to the cathedral, parts of the old city walls remain, including a tower that you can climb up for 2 euros. It affords a great view of the cathedral, the plaza below, the city, and its surroundings.
Don't look at this picture if you have vertigo....
After that, we were (sadly) ready to leave Narbonne.
Our next stop was Carcassonne, which is famous for its still-completely-intact medieval city within still-completely-intact walls. Also established during Roman times, the walled city eventually fell into disrepair, but was restored in the mid-1800s. More on Carcassonne's history for those inclined can be found here. Unfortunately, while the old part of the city is very grand and impressive, it has been turned more or less into a tourist spot, and is crawling with people like ... well, people just like us! The highlights of our time there were the walk around the walls, and the visit to the very old, also very interesting church. Photos follow.
I took many, many pictures on this trip, some of which are even better than usual, and some are best viewed in either the large or original size. I couldn't post them all here, but you can see them all in the Narbonne and Carcassonne Set on Flickr, including many of Suzie and the kids. We really loved both places, but especially Narbonne.
Finally, for those inclined toward goofiness, I give you three Youtube links, to short video commentary provided by my son Andrew while in Carcassonne -- Carcassonne through the eyes of a 13-year old ... in 1-minute slices.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Y0O537xkFY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPAPTgHaGYY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9leyPbQVY50&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
The operative word is "yeah...."
The city has a remarkable old Gothic cathedral, the construction of which was begin in 1272 but never completed, due in part to a failure of the city council to give its consent to a destruction of a part of the city walls, which was necessary to the cathedral's construction. The cathedral is the third-highest Gothic cathedral in France, and contains what are regarded as the most beautiful stained glass in all of Southern France. It was one of the neatest, most interesting, most beautiful churches we've seen in France.
In addition to the cathedral, parts of the old city walls remain, including a tower that you can climb up for 2 euros. It affords a great view of the cathedral, the plaza below, the city, and its surroundings.
Don't look at this picture if you have vertigo....
After that, we were (sadly) ready to leave Narbonne.
Our next stop was Carcassonne, which is famous for its still-completely-intact medieval city within still-completely-intact walls. Also established during Roman times, the walled city eventually fell into disrepair, but was restored in the mid-1800s. More on Carcassonne's history for those inclined can be found here. Unfortunately, while the old part of the city is very grand and impressive, it has been turned more or less into a tourist spot, and is crawling with people like ... well, people just like us! The highlights of our time there were the walk around the walls, and the visit to the very old, also very interesting church. Photos follow.
I took many, many pictures on this trip, some of which are even better than usual, and some are best viewed in either the large or original size. I couldn't post them all here, but you can see them all in the Narbonne and Carcassonne Set on Flickr, including many of Suzie and the kids. We really loved both places, but especially Narbonne.
Finally, for those inclined toward goofiness, I give you three Youtube links, to short video commentary provided by my son Andrew while in Carcassonne -- Carcassonne through the eyes of a 13-year old ... in 1-minute slices.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Y0O537xkFY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPAPTgHaGYY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9leyPbQVY50&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1]
The operative word is "yeah...."
A Vacation from Our Vacation from Our Vacation -- Day One
We returned last night from what my son Andrew called a vacation (to the Mediterranean) from our vacation (to Toulouse) from our vacation (in Paris). We left Wednesday morning and drove from Aigrefeulle to the beach between Gruissan and Narbonne-Plage. For orientation, here's a map showing the spots we visited (zoom in to get the details):
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&s=AARTsJoP023D-6cbNkPpTJx_nbq5fAsVUg&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.0004547a7c042a0a6de98&ll=43.227194,2.315369&spn=0.960613,1.757813&t=h&z=9&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
The beach was very broad, and very relaxing and sunny, and not at all crowded, but also a little disappointing, because the waves weren't very large (probably due to the fact that the depth of the water decreased very, very slowly; you could be 200 feet out from shore and still stand up), and because the water was remarkably chilly, not at all like the balmy Mediterranean we'd swum in during our last trip in Italy. (We had been warned that this might be the case -- which reminds me that I'm about 3 days behind in my blogging. I've missed a number of things, but hopefully I'll catch up). Still, we enjoyed our afternoon at the beach, and left feeling relaxed and happy.
We had made a reservation at a hotel in Narbonne, called the Novotel, which is, I think, a European chain. Before leaving Aigrefeuille I had clicked on the link provided in the reservation confirmation e-mail, which purported to show the location of (and give driving directions to) the hotel, so we followed those from the beach. This lead us directly into the center of Narbonne (and into bad, bad traffic), which was odd because we had thought that the hotel was on the edge of town near the autoroute. After coming the the spot designated in the e-mail link for the hotel and not finding it, Suzie spotted an Avis rental car location and went in to ask where the hotel was. It turned out that the hotel was not where the link said it was, but rather was, as we'd originally thought, on the edge of town, which necessitated retracing our steps back through the bad traffic once again. I wonder how many visitors to the hotel have been induced to make the same mistake. In any event, the hotel was absolutely perfect for us. The room was large and clean, the hotel had a nice pool and other facilities, and it seemed to be populated by people exactly like us -- parents with kids going to the beach. The staff was very friendly and helpful, and the price was extremely reasonable. Go Novotel.
The boys swam a little, we watched a little Olympic coverage, and we all showered and got ready for dinner. Before we'd left the States, Suzie had bought me for Father's Day the 2008 version of the famous Michelin Guide for France, and she looked in the guide for a restaurant recommendation and found one that was highly recommended and (fairly) reasonable in price. We made a reservation for 7:30 and proceeded to drive back to the City center.
One of the joys of travel is discovering great things when you least expect them. We had no expectations of Narbonne; before we went, it was just a place we were staying while we went to the beach. But as soon as we started exploring, we fell in love with it. Unlike some French villages or towns, Narbonne seems like a "real" city, a bustling place with real working people, and yet it contains some absolutely charming and beautiful places and spaces. The first of these we found while walking to our restaurant: the Canal de la Robine, which cuts through the middle of the city:
Since we arrived before our reservation, we had time to walk around a bit. There was some kind of festival going on, including a somewhat strange performance by a man in a black topcoat and hat and his trained horses, ponies, and dogs, which was evidently intended for children. There were lots of people all around, the early evening air was warm and clear, and we were relaxed and happy and ready to eat.
What came next was fantastic -- by far the best, most enjoyable meal we've had in France so far. It was, as noted, at a restaurant recommended by the Michelin Guide, called L'Estagnol. Everything about our meal there was absolutely perfect. We sat outside, across the street from the green space bordering the canal, and were served by a waiter who was friendly, efficient, and made us feel completely welcome (he even complemented the boys when they ordered in French). The crowd at the restaurant was large and talkative, which lent it a festive atmosphere. And the food ... oh, the food was outstanding ... are you ready? The courses were:
For starters, oysters for Suzie, which she described (more than once) as being the best she'd ever tasted in her life:
For the boys, mussels on the shell, with a wonderful, wonderful cream sauce:
And for me, an Italian salad with large pieces of a rich, flavorful, delicious ham akin to proscuitto, large flakes of tangy, dry aged parmesian cheese, and a rich but not overpowering dressing. We could have stopped there, but we didn't, so on to the main courses.
For Suzie, a fish dish recommended by the waiter, a filet de morue, or cod, which sounds pedestrian, but which was, in fact, simply devine, perhaps the best fish dish I've ever tasted, delicate, flaky, perfectly cooked in a drop-dead delicious butter sauce. My mouth is watering now just thinking about it.
For the boys, filet of perch, served with a flavorful cream sauce, also perfectly cooked, but unfortunately up this evening against the killer cod.
And for me, entrecote of beef, with a not-too-spicy, but very complex creamy pepper sauce, tender, flavorful, perfectly, perfectly grilled, with a side of potatoes au gratin, rich but not too heavy. Wonderful, wonderful.
For dessert, for the boys, something that was called tiramisu, but which was not like tiramisu I've seen, but was, in fact, in a glass like you'd use for an ice cream sundae, and consisting of some kind of cold, creamy liquid, some red fruit (raspberries, I think), and some type of crumbled up cookie, all mixed together. And for me ... ah, yes, a deep, dark, chocolate morsel, like a small cake, with a rich, slightly uncooked, dense chocolate center, served with a raspberry sauce ... yes, it was every bit as good as you can imagine.
The whole meal took two and a half hours, which went by so quickly, and the portions were small enough (but not too) and spaced out enough that by the time we left, we felt pleasantly full but not at all stuffed. The entire experience was perfect, just perfect.
After eating, we walked around the canal area a bit more. Night had fallen, but there were still a lot of people around. A band was playing music and people were dancing in a little area across the canal. We watched them for a time before returning to our hotel, completely happy and satisfied, for a great night's sleep.
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The beach was very broad, and very relaxing and sunny, and not at all crowded, but also a little disappointing, because the waves weren't very large (probably due to the fact that the depth of the water decreased very, very slowly; you could be 200 feet out from shore and still stand up), and because the water was remarkably chilly, not at all like the balmy Mediterranean we'd swum in during our last trip in Italy. (We had been warned that this might be the case -- which reminds me that I'm about 3 days behind in my blogging. I've missed a number of things, but hopefully I'll catch up). Still, we enjoyed our afternoon at the beach, and left feeling relaxed and happy.
We had made a reservation at a hotel in Narbonne, called the Novotel, which is, I think, a European chain. Before leaving Aigrefeuille I had clicked on the link provided in the reservation confirmation e-mail, which purported to show the location of (and give driving directions to) the hotel, so we followed those from the beach. This lead us directly into the center of Narbonne (and into bad, bad traffic), which was odd because we had thought that the hotel was on the edge of town near the autoroute. After coming the the spot designated in the e-mail link for the hotel and not finding it, Suzie spotted an Avis rental car location and went in to ask where the hotel was. It turned out that the hotel was not where the link said it was, but rather was, as we'd originally thought, on the edge of town, which necessitated retracing our steps back through the bad traffic once again. I wonder how many visitors to the hotel have been induced to make the same mistake. In any event, the hotel was absolutely perfect for us. The room was large and clean, the hotel had a nice pool and other facilities, and it seemed to be populated by people exactly like us -- parents with kids going to the beach. The staff was very friendly and helpful, and the price was extremely reasonable. Go Novotel.
The boys swam a little, we watched a little Olympic coverage, and we all showered and got ready for dinner. Before we'd left the States, Suzie had bought me for Father's Day the 2008 version of the famous Michelin Guide for France, and she looked in the guide for a restaurant recommendation and found one that was highly recommended and (fairly) reasonable in price. We made a reservation for 7:30 and proceeded to drive back to the City center.
One of the joys of travel is discovering great things when you least expect them. We had no expectations of Narbonne; before we went, it was just a place we were staying while we went to the beach. But as soon as we started exploring, we fell in love with it. Unlike some French villages or towns, Narbonne seems like a "real" city, a bustling place with real working people, and yet it contains some absolutely charming and beautiful places and spaces. The first of these we found while walking to our restaurant: the Canal de la Robine, which cuts through the middle of the city:
Since we arrived before our reservation, we had time to walk around a bit. There was some kind of festival going on, including a somewhat strange performance by a man in a black topcoat and hat and his trained horses, ponies, and dogs, which was evidently intended for children. There were lots of people all around, the early evening air was warm and clear, and we were relaxed and happy and ready to eat.
What came next was fantastic -- by far the best, most enjoyable meal we've had in France so far. It was, as noted, at a restaurant recommended by the Michelin Guide, called L'Estagnol. Everything about our meal there was absolutely perfect. We sat outside, across the street from the green space bordering the canal, and were served by a waiter who was friendly, efficient, and made us feel completely welcome (he even complemented the boys when they ordered in French). The crowd at the restaurant was large and talkative, which lent it a festive atmosphere. And the food ... oh, the food was outstanding ... are you ready? The courses were:
For starters, oysters for Suzie, which she described (more than once) as being the best she'd ever tasted in her life:
For the boys, mussels on the shell, with a wonderful, wonderful cream sauce:
And for me, an Italian salad with large pieces of a rich, flavorful, delicious ham akin to proscuitto, large flakes of tangy, dry aged parmesian cheese, and a rich but not overpowering dressing. We could have stopped there, but we didn't, so on to the main courses.
For Suzie, a fish dish recommended by the waiter, a filet de morue, or cod, which sounds pedestrian, but which was, in fact, simply devine, perhaps the best fish dish I've ever tasted, delicate, flaky, perfectly cooked in a drop-dead delicious butter sauce. My mouth is watering now just thinking about it.
For the boys, filet of perch, served with a flavorful cream sauce, also perfectly cooked, but unfortunately up this evening against the killer cod.
And for me, entrecote of beef, with a not-too-spicy, but very complex creamy pepper sauce, tender, flavorful, perfectly, perfectly grilled, with a side of potatoes au gratin, rich but not too heavy. Wonderful, wonderful.
For dessert, for the boys, something that was called tiramisu, but which was not like tiramisu I've seen, but was, in fact, in a glass like you'd use for an ice cream sundae, and consisting of some kind of cold, creamy liquid, some red fruit (raspberries, I think), and some type of crumbled up cookie, all mixed together. And for me ... ah, yes, a deep, dark, chocolate morsel, like a small cake, with a rich, slightly uncooked, dense chocolate center, served with a raspberry sauce ... yes, it was every bit as good as you can imagine.
The whole meal took two and a half hours, which went by so quickly, and the portions were small enough (but not too) and spaced out enough that by the time we left, we felt pleasantly full but not at all stuffed. The entire experience was perfect, just perfect.
After eating, we walked around the canal area a bit more. Night had fallen, but there were still a lot of people around. A band was playing music and people were dancing in a little area across the canal. We watched them for a time before returning to our hotel, completely happy and satisfied, for a great night's sleep.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Surprised by Toulouse
We got a late start today because of the rain, which fortunately cleared off by late morning. Since we'd driven the prior two days, we decided to keep close to home and visit Toulouse, which we had not yet seen. It was an easy 15 minute drive to the Metro station (free parking, too) and a quick 15 minute tram ride into the older part of the city. I had no expectations of the city, and was thus very pleasantly surprised by it -- it is a beautiful, bustling (but not overwhelmingly so), comfortable city, with attractive buildings and public spaces. It has a much different feel than Paris, much more southern and Mediterranean-feeling, with more reddish pastel colors and architecture that feels a little Spanish. We visited two very different, very beautiful churches, the Basilica St. Sernin, and the Eglise des Jacobins. Both were more interesting inside than most churches we've visited, and St. Sernin has a wonderfully interesting exterior also:
The streets are festive and interesting,
and the City Hall is a massive, impressive building situated on a large open plaza:
The Eglise des Jacobins has a very interesting interior, particularly the vaulted ceiling and the row of massive columns running down the center of the vast space.
Finally, since Boyd wanted a couple of pictures of me, here's one of me, taken by my son Andrew, trying to figure out where to go next.
And I close with a self-portrait of me, showing that the kids are really, really getting to me lately....
We definitely plan on visiting again, given how easy it is to get into town how pleased we were with our first visit.
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