Like life everywhere, mine has had its share of pluses and minuses over the last few days. Our weather, the most atypical I've seen here in Provence, remains overcast, cool, and rainy. We've had thunderstorms and wind that threatened to blow us off to Oz. Tempests bring fits of temper and, for awhile, we almost succumbed to the tone set by the black cloud covering the hills out our window.
The same dark cloud seems to be everywhere these days and, while the climate is chilly, the workers here in France are heating up to another series of strikes and manifestations. Perhaps inspired by the 40th anniversary of the Evenements du Mai--the huge semi-revolution that swept France and particularly Paris in 1968 while I was a student at the Sorbonne--the fisherman, farmers, truckers, and train folks are all having conniptions and then some over the price of gas, the lengthening of their work week and work years before retirement, plus about anything else that comes to mind. Our local fish monger at the Buis market said he'd probably not be there next week because he can't get his fish and June 10 promises to be a big bust out around the country on lots of fronts. And so it goes.
The greve--or strike--gremlins, came to our house yesterday when the internet sort of worked but I couldn't get my e-mails to come up. We've had problems all week with power outages and subsequent phone and computer glitches but yesterday was a pip. The worst though was the wild cat strike our water heater decided to throw after we hosted a dinner party for seven last night. Plates from three courses, water and wine glasses, giant earthenware stew pots, and silverware littered every counter in the kitchen. (We have no dishwasher, by the way.) As we said "bonne nuit" to all and handed them their umbrellas, we went to deal with the detritus. Earlier in the evening the water was cold but we figured we'd just used all the warm stuff up. Several hours later, unfortunately, we still couldn't conjure any hot water from the tap.
I took out my trusty fuse map we'd inherited from the former owner and checked everything I could figure out. Now, at 11 p.m. after aperatifs and a glass or two of red with the meal, I wasn't feeling particularly "handy." Nothing seemed amiss that I could tell so we shrugged our shoulders and went to bed, visions of electricians or plumbers dancing in our heads.
This morning, all was better. The hot water strike was over and the net was up and running. We tackled the dishes, checked e-mail, and returned to the fact that we'd had a great time the night before.
Our new acquaintances, the French/American couple came to dinner with a visiting brother in tow along with our British friends, Steve and Jo. Starting with an aperatif viognier from the women-run vinters at Gros Pata, we nibbled on a tapenade with tomatoes and mozzarella--the recipe from Hallie's book by the same name. Once "a table," we feasted on one of Hallie's fabulous salads featuring--what else--more of the fat, white asparagus spears that will dissappear next week for another year. Next up I--the chicken queen-- pulled off a frugal, silk purse out of a sow's ear kind of dish, chicken stew with artichokes, local olives, and red wine that melded into a luscious, simmered concoction. Hallie did her magic with the local epautre, a kind of farro or spelt, turning it to into something far above a hearty grain, using home-made stock, a hint of herbs and a crown of last minute cheese. I'd made our current house special, the cherry and olive oil cake, earlier in the day giving the house a bit of warm, caramel perfume, and brought it out graced with a dollop of vanilla bean ice cream as a closer. Everyone laughed like crazy through the evening as we talked about such things as living in foreign lands, ex-spouses, and even politics-a volatile but permitted topic here in France. Fun, fun, fun.
The wicked witch melted in all the rain and, so far, the plus column tallies up better than the minus--all a person really can ask from life, even when all it does is pour.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Little Surprises
Life unfolded yesterday as it is fond of doing in Provence, bringing the unexpected in two small and sometimes moving surprises.
We were warned that parking would be difficult here in Mollans due to an influx of Sapeurs-Pompiers for a conference. Sapeurs-Pompiers, or pompous saviors as Hallie's friend Carl nicknamed them, are firemen and they descended on our little village complete with trucks and uniforms, gobbling up the public parking spots and gumming up traffic pretty thoroughly. We don't have a garage and parking is not normally a concern, except if the summer Saturday market is happening or if it's the annual, village-wide tag sale in September. However, we took the warning to heart and settled in to a day in the village. After lunch, we went for one of our multiple mini-walks and, en route, heard band music coming from the other side of the village. Hoofing it over towards the mairie, or city hall, we found firemen and women arranged in formation, dressed both in working duds and dress uniforms with a twenty piece marching band doing its best with the Marseillaise. They, like the fire trucks and rescue vehicles parked in the main lot, came in all shapes and sizes. Our favorite was the four and half foot saxaphone player who may have been born just shortly before Jesus Christ and the tall, lanky fire fighter in dress blues with a Charles de Gaulle nose.
After the Marseillaise, a speaker came forward and introduced various dignitaries from villages and towns throughout our region of the Drome. One by one, as each name was announced, he or she stepped up with a bouquet to be escorted to the war memorial that lists the dead from our village. With each bouquet gently left behind, the moment became increasingly touching. Afterwards, the first of the fire trucks fired up its engine, topped with a gleamingly metal helmeted fireman waving a flag, and started slowly out the village, followed by all the other trucks, each representing towns in the Drome. The other firefighters assumed a raggedy formation and marched off, mostly in step, led by the band, mostly in tune. Quite the display for our tiny community.
Later that afternoon, heading out for walk two, a couple stopped us to ask where were the Americans with the cooking school. We introduced ourselves as the very thing and they broke into English. She turned out to be from Louisianna while he was clearly French. They've lived in the village for three years and this is the first time we've met each other. How in a town of around 900 inhabitants could we have missed each other?
Tallying things up, two surprises for one day. That's what letting things unfold brings to our life. More is sure to come.
We were warned that parking would be difficult here in Mollans due to an influx of Sapeurs-Pompiers for a conference. Sapeurs-Pompiers, or pompous saviors as Hallie's friend Carl nicknamed them, are firemen and they descended on our little village complete with trucks and uniforms, gobbling up the public parking spots and gumming up traffic pretty thoroughly. We don't have a garage and parking is not normally a concern, except if the summer Saturday market is happening or if it's the annual, village-wide tag sale in September. However, we took the warning to heart and settled in to a day in the village. After lunch, we went for one of our multiple mini-walks and, en route, heard band music coming from the other side of the village. Hoofing it over towards the mairie, or city hall, we found firemen and women arranged in formation, dressed both in working duds and dress uniforms with a twenty piece marching band doing its best with the Marseillaise. They, like the fire trucks and rescue vehicles parked in the main lot, came in all shapes and sizes. Our favorite was the four and half foot saxaphone player who may have been born just shortly before Jesus Christ and the tall, lanky fire fighter in dress blues with a Charles de Gaulle nose.
After the Marseillaise, a speaker came forward and introduced various dignitaries from villages and towns throughout our region of the Drome. One by one, as each name was announced, he or she stepped up with a bouquet to be escorted to the war memorial that lists the dead from our village. With each bouquet gently left behind, the moment became increasingly touching. Afterwards, the first of the fire trucks fired up its engine, topped with a gleamingly metal helmeted fireman waving a flag, and started slowly out the village, followed by all the other trucks, each representing towns in the Drome. The other firefighters assumed a raggedy formation and marched off, mostly in step, led by the band, mostly in tune. Quite the display for our tiny community.
Later that afternoon, heading out for walk two, a couple stopped us to ask where were the Americans with the cooking school. We introduced ourselves as the very thing and they broke into English. She turned out to be from Louisianna while he was clearly French. They've lived in the village for three years and this is the first time we've met each other. How in a town of around 900 inhabitants could we have missed each other?
Tallying things up, two surprises for one day. That's what letting things unfold brings to our life. More is sure to come.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Springtime Comes Slowly
As my first week passed, spring arrived slowly here in Mollans. Most mornings started with the promise of sun but by noon, the clouds rolled in and my sweater came on. All our French friends wished and hoped right along with us for warmer days and today, just about 10 days into my trip, our wishes seem to be granted. Cloudless and squintingly blue skies continue into this afternoon, blessing us and the still pale green growth all around with a promise of Provencal heat.
As a bonus, the coolish weather means that the asparagus is lasting a bit later into May than normal. The cherries are bit tarter than typical, lacking the extra fructose they make when sun-kissed. Perfect for clafouti, though, so, on Saturday, when we had thunder and lightening for company in the afternoon, I stirred together creme fraiche, some eggs, sugar, and cornstarch instead of flour for a weekend treat to go with our take-out paella. Perfect. Around 10 a.m., I'd walked across our lovely bridge towards the clock tower and past the Bar du Pont to see if our paella man was still setting up shop on Saturday mornings. He was there and my timing was good. If you get there too early, the paella isn't ready but arrive too late and it's all gone or looking the worse for wear. I snarfed up two portions for dinner and he scooped the saffron-tinted rice, chunks of chicken, mussels and shrimp into his plastic container, packed it down a bit and filled it once more with another bit of rice.
The local vendors set up a produce stand alongside each Saturday and the butcher does a brisk business. Mollans is out in force, with the villagers strolling along, baguettes tucked in the crook of an elbow, and pausing to give the southern French three-intstead-of-two kiss greeting to friends and acquaintences as they eased into the weekend.
Because we'd been given a bag heaped with cherries by a friend, on Sunday I looked up the olive-oil and cherry cake recipe we love and pitted and puttered my way towards another delicious dessert. Ruby cherry juice squirted around the kitchen as I smacked the fruit with the flat of my chef's knife, getting out the hard seeds and filling a cup with the plumply gorgeous flesh. It happened that Sunday was a passable day for sun so we grilled little lamb chops on the terrace and opened up a bottle of Girasol's cote du Rhone wine to accompany them. Bliss.
On Monday, Roberto jilted me. Monday is better known as Pizza Monday and, around 6 or 6:30 p.m., Roberto sets up his pizza truck next to the Bar du Pont. Our British and French friends from the village snake tables together on the terrace, order beer and wine from the bar, and pizzas from Roberto. This Monday--no Roberto. We had leftovers at home and pouted. Turns out the poor man had a minor accident so all is forgiven. Same time, next Monday, we'll make up over my favorite--eggplant pizza.
Tuesdays are market days in Vaison la Romaine, our nearby shopping hotspot, and I love going at this time of year before the pathways are packed with European and American tourists. I went a bit earlier than usual and took my time, strolling along past the heaped tables, full of the colors of Provence, golds, reds, and greens in fabrics and food alike, interspersed with the rich midnight-tinted olives in stands scattered here and there like punctuation points. I don't buy all that much, just some produce and, this time, a jar of my favorite apricot and lavendar jam for my morning toast. I always park at Jean-Claude and Annette's house, some of our first local French friends, saving the hassle of finding parking on the street. It was good to see them well and fit after their Provencal winter.
Wednesday I cleaned and did some laundry, worked on tidying cupboards, and stuffed some chicken breasts with goat cheese and pesto for dinner. Simple stuff and quiet, the kind of thing that give a rhythm of belonging to my stays. And so, we settle into sunshine and another week of village life. More British friends just arrived and the spring social whirl will start up soon. American friends from Minneapolis are dropping in for a late lunch today and all is right with the world.
Next time: Whatever life offers.
As a bonus, the coolish weather means that the asparagus is lasting a bit later into May than normal. The cherries are bit tarter than typical, lacking the extra fructose they make when sun-kissed. Perfect for clafouti, though, so, on Saturday, when we had thunder and lightening for company in the afternoon, I stirred together creme fraiche, some eggs, sugar, and cornstarch instead of flour for a weekend treat to go with our take-out paella. Perfect. Around 10 a.m., I'd walked across our lovely bridge towards the clock tower and past the Bar du Pont to see if our paella man was still setting up shop on Saturday mornings. He was there and my timing was good. If you get there too early, the paella isn't ready but arrive too late and it's all gone or looking the worse for wear. I snarfed up two portions for dinner and he scooped the saffron-tinted rice, chunks of chicken, mussels and shrimp into his plastic container, packed it down a bit and filled it once more with another bit of rice.
The local vendors set up a produce stand alongside each Saturday and the butcher does a brisk business. Mollans is out in force, with the villagers strolling along, baguettes tucked in the crook of an elbow, and pausing to give the southern French three-intstead-of-two kiss greeting to friends and acquaintences as they eased into the weekend.
Because we'd been given a bag heaped with cherries by a friend, on Sunday I looked up the olive-oil and cherry cake recipe we love and pitted and puttered my way towards another delicious dessert. Ruby cherry juice squirted around the kitchen as I smacked the fruit with the flat of my chef's knife, getting out the hard seeds and filling a cup with the plumply gorgeous flesh. It happened that Sunday was a passable day for sun so we grilled little lamb chops on the terrace and opened up a bottle of Girasol's cote du Rhone wine to accompany them. Bliss.
On Monday, Roberto jilted me. Monday is better known as Pizza Monday and, around 6 or 6:30 p.m., Roberto sets up his pizza truck next to the Bar du Pont. Our British and French friends from the village snake tables together on the terrace, order beer and wine from the bar, and pizzas from Roberto. This Monday--no Roberto. We had leftovers at home and pouted. Turns out the poor man had a minor accident so all is forgiven. Same time, next Monday, we'll make up over my favorite--eggplant pizza.
Tuesdays are market days in Vaison la Romaine, our nearby shopping hotspot, and I love going at this time of year before the pathways are packed with European and American tourists. I went a bit earlier than usual and took my time, strolling along past the heaped tables, full of the colors of Provence, golds, reds, and greens in fabrics and food alike, interspersed with the rich midnight-tinted olives in stands scattered here and there like punctuation points. I don't buy all that much, just some produce and, this time, a jar of my favorite apricot and lavendar jam for my morning toast. I always park at Jean-Claude and Annette's house, some of our first local French friends, saving the hassle of finding parking on the street. It was good to see them well and fit after their Provencal winter.
Wednesday I cleaned and did some laundry, worked on tidying cupboards, and stuffed some chicken breasts with goat cheese and pesto for dinner. Simple stuff and quiet, the kind of thing that give a rhythm of belonging to my stays. And so, we settle into sunshine and another week of village life. More British friends just arrived and the spring social whirl will start up soon. American friends from Minneapolis are dropping in for a late lunch today and all is right with the world.
Next time: Whatever life offers.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The trip to Mollans gets both harder and easier with each visit--kind of a best of times, worst of times sort of thing. Finding tickets that won't leave me totally broke gets to be more and more of challenge and, as my friends and family, will attest, I'm quite good at finding the best deals for travel. It's just that the deals aren't really deals anymore and, when the price is slightly cheaper, the journey itself gets longer.
This May was no exception. I started several months ago, checking web sites that had worked before. Orbitz dealt out some deals last year, especially a one way ticket to get me home after arriving in France by ship, but it just wasn't working for me in 2008. A couple of years ago, airgorilla coughed up a decent fare or two but hasn't delivered since. I'm okay with flying into Paris and taking the TGV but prefer, if Hallie, my fellow homeowner and friend, is around, to fly into Marseille. That way the airline deals with my baggage until Hallie pulls up in our faithful Peugeot and we head back to Mollans on the autoroute. Checking prices, flying into Marseille was not going to be an option.
Finally I found an airfare, using Booking Buddy's multiple referral sites, for just under $1000.00. It's scary to think that constitutes a bargain. Of course, I had to leave on a 7 a.m. flight for Atlanta, sit around in Atlanta for four hours waiting for my connextion, fly for eight plus hours, and then go through the customs zoo at Charles de Gaulle airport. No lines but rather a giant crowd jockeying for position in a badly marked area before freedom and luggage. Of course, the luggage arrived on the carrousel posted as Orlando but with Atlanta in tiny letters beneath it, just the kind of thing your brain is going to process really well after being en route for seemingly forever. But, what do you expect for $1000.00?
From there, things went smoothly, the easier rather than harder part of the journey. The first time you try to sort out the train terminal at the airport, it's all very confusing but, after you've done it a few times, the whole thing is very simple. The track for each train is posted about 20 minutes before departure and, once alongside the track, there's a helpful sign indicating the appoximate area where your car will stop. All lovely and easy. On the train, you just need to stay alert enough to get off at your stop. This trip. I was fine with staying awake as my seat companion, a widow traveling from Britanny to a rest home vacation along the Mediterranean, insisted on carriying on a one-sided conversation for most of the way. Kind of like listening to a French Miss Marple with Alzheimers . About three hours later, I manhandled my luggage off the train at Avignon and searched out Hallie. From there, it takes about an hour through the vineyards and into the hills that surround Mollans. Mount Ventoux, with its white, bald top that always reminds me of a bald eagle, sparkled in the Tuesday sun and, right around 24 hours from leaving home, I was home again.
It's all worth it.
Next: The first week
This May was no exception. I started several months ago, checking web sites that had worked before. Orbitz dealt out some deals last year, especially a one way ticket to get me home after arriving in France by ship, but it just wasn't working for me in 2008. A couple of years ago, airgorilla coughed up a decent fare or two but hasn't delivered since. I'm okay with flying into Paris and taking the TGV but prefer, if Hallie, my fellow homeowner and friend, is around, to fly into Marseille. That way the airline deals with my baggage until Hallie pulls up in our faithful Peugeot and we head back to Mollans on the autoroute. Checking prices, flying into Marseille was not going to be an option.
Finally I found an airfare, using Booking Buddy's multiple referral sites, for just under $1000.00. It's scary to think that constitutes a bargain. Of course, I had to leave on a 7 a.m. flight for Atlanta, sit around in Atlanta for four hours waiting for my connextion, fly for eight plus hours, and then go through the customs zoo at Charles de Gaulle airport. No lines but rather a giant crowd jockeying for position in a badly marked area before freedom and luggage. Of course, the luggage arrived on the carrousel posted as Orlando but with Atlanta in tiny letters beneath it, just the kind of thing your brain is going to process really well after being en route for seemingly forever. But, what do you expect for $1000.00?
From there, things went smoothly, the easier rather than harder part of the journey. The first time you try to sort out the train terminal at the airport, it's all very confusing but, after you've done it a few times, the whole thing is very simple. The track for each train is posted about 20 minutes before departure and, once alongside the track, there's a helpful sign indicating the appoximate area where your car will stop. All lovely and easy. On the train, you just need to stay alert enough to get off at your stop. This trip. I was fine with staying awake as my seat companion, a widow traveling from Britanny to a rest home vacation along the Mediterranean, insisted on carriying on a one-sided conversation for most of the way. Kind of like listening to a French Miss Marple with Alzheimers . About three hours later, I manhandled my luggage off the train at Avignon and searched out Hallie. From there, it takes about an hour through the vineyards and into the hills that surround Mollans. Mount Ventoux, with its white, bald top that always reminds me of a bald eagle, sparkled in the Tuesday sun and, right around 24 hours from leaving home, I was home again.
It's all worth it.
Next: The first week
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