North of Andorra

Merry Christmas

2011-12-22T12:54:00.002-07:00

Unfortunately, the photo has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever but I can't think of a better time to post it. This is my family in August of 1995, in Livingston, Montana. They were all there to help Nancy and I construct our cabin. We're standing just inside of what would become the front door. You can see a couple courses of logs have been put in place and the window and door bucks (frames) stand upright and braced to the plywood floor.

In the front row are my sister Leslie (holding Rose), Nancy and then Andrew, my nephew. The next row is comprised of brother-in-law Darrell (holding Willie), niece Anna, niece Ellen and nephew Noah. In the next row are my brother-in-law Tony and my sister Amy. The last row is niece Sarah, her friend Chris, niece Kate and my sister Peggy. I'm sitting off on the right side with our faithful hound dog O'Malley between my feet.

That summer, we formed work parties to haul rocks, peel logs, pound nails, drill holes and generally have an all-around good time building a cabin. As I recall, almost all of them returned the next summer to frame walls, paint kitchen cabinets and window and door trim, pick up wood scraps, hang doors, clean windows and perform other thankless tasks. I hope they all had a good time.

This photo is one of the survivors. It, along with a bunch of other possessions, spent 2004 in a storage unit in Livingston while we were moving from one house to another. Over the summer, there was a huge rainstorm and water flooded under the storage unit door. One box of photos was sitting on the ground and soaked up a fair amount of water. Many prints and a few boxes of slides were damaged beyond repair. As luck would have it, thousands of unremarkable photos of unimportant events survived unscathed. But hundreds of pictures of the cabin building process and the slide show of our 1987 bike tour of Europe were lost. Bad luck.

So count your blessings and Merry Christmas everyone.

Home Again, Again

2011-08-19T15:51:00.002-06:00

We made it home to Montrose without any major SNAFUs. My sister Peggy and husband Tony picked us up at the airport. No lost luggage, no miscues at the arranged pick up point, and the next day, no flat tires on the drive to Montrose. (We did wake up at 2:30 am with a case of jet lag, but we bravely fought through the initial feeling of energy and stayed in bed til 6 am.) Fergus met us that evening at my sister's house and he was very happy to see us, but of course, he's happy to see anyone. We had some nice wine and a fine American dinner of steak, green beans and the best sweet corn I've tasted in years. Thank you Peggy and Tony for the beds and comestibles and the airport service. Thank you Amy, Dan, Mimi and Max for taking care of our buddy Fergus.

We have no plans to return to France next summer (but we'll see) due to lack of funds. It has been quite a run for quite a while. France, Italy, Austria, Slovakia, Spain, Hungary and Mexico were experienced and enjoyed.

If we can think of anything to blog about in the near future, we will. Otherwise, expect nothing and you won't be disappointed.

Animated Barcelona

2011-08-06T22:45:00.003-06:00

Two young guitarists were seated at the steps of the Catedral de Barcelona. Their street performance of classical and flamenco guitar resonated throughout the plaza. While we were sitting listening, the plaza was a stopping point for numerous Barcelona fat tire bike tours, the site of a small flea/antique market, and hundreds of photo-oppers capturing the Catedral.

On our ramble down Las Ramblas, Barcelona's famous boulevard for promenading, we encountered the shadier side of street performances---the shell game. Three little boxes, one with a pea hidden under it, and the then the sleight of hand game begins. I've read that some of these con artists will have 10 to 15 'assistants' working the audience with them, putting money down and pretending to lose. It boosts your confidence. You find yourself watching several games, following the little boxes, thinking "I can win at this." And that's what they are counting on. But you can't win. They encourage you to participate, but I didn't want to try, and that's when the con artist suggested I stop filming.

Barcelona

2011-08-06T08:10:00.015-06:00

The top tourist attraction in Barcelona is the Familia Sagrada, the famous Gaudi cathedral that is still unfiished to this day. The first stone was laid in 1882 and shortly thereafter Gaudi himself took over the project. He died in a streetcar accident in 1926 and the beautiful building was nowhere close to being finished. It was undone when I first visited it in 1972 and has come along by leaps and starts, but is not finished yet. Perhaps in 2030, they say. One thing that has changed are the crowds. It stands to reason, Barcelona being one of the top tourist attractions in the world, and Familia Sagrada the top attraction in town, that it would be crowded. The combination of the scaffolding, the tour busses, the lines, the construction fence, the traffic makes it a very unsatisfying experience. I am perplexed as how to make a decent photograph of the place, although I'm sure a great photographer would find a way. I didn't.

The line to visit the interior stretched around the block to the opposite side of the building and it was 9 :30 in the morning. I couldn't find a place to stand without a tour bus or a traffic light in the foregroound.

The older portions of the Familia Sagrada have a darker patina compared to the new stone and you can easily see the newer construction. In reality, it's unfair to compare my recent visit with the visit in 1972, it being enveloped in a cloud of haze, but I don't remember the crowds or the scaffolding as being objectionable.

We wandered along the Las Ramblas where performance art was going on. This lady I first mistook for a sculpture, but her blinking eyes gave her away. I took her picture just as some comedians were putting the devil's horns over her head. I missed the photo by barely a second.

The immense and bustling Mercat de la Boqueria along the Las Ramblas had a fish stall and a dish of fresh octopus was sitting on the counter. I took this photograph for Madeleine, who was squeamish about eating snails a few weeks ago. What about eating this, Mimi? Does it set your tastebuds on fire?

Speaking of seafood, last night at dinner we went to a nearby Neapolitan restaurant. I ordered "pasta with fruits of the sea". I was expecting a plate of pasta with some clams, mussels and a shrimp or two. I recieved this fabulous surprise; delicious pasta with a flavorful sauce, two of the largest shrimp I've ever seen, clams, mussels and a whole crab. I have to confess, being a boy from the landlocked Rocky Mountains, I never learned how to eat crab unless it comes in a plastic package. It was a struggle and I'm sure most of the delicacies were still on the plate when the waiter took it away, but "OH MY" was it good.

The "fruits of the sea" almost made me forget that I had been pickpocketed the day before on the Metro. We were aware it is a serious problem in Barcelona, and I unloaded almost everything I could from my wallet and left it in Leran. I lost two credit cards, ten euros, my driver's license and a filthy fifteen year old wallet. In what I thought was a smart move, I had shifted my wallet from my back pocket to front pocket. I guess they were smarter. It's a small price to pay for the freedom of being able to walk around Barcelona knowing that there is nothing further they can take from me. While filling out the police report later that day, we talked with some Brits who had also been victimized by thieves. On their first day in Barcelona on a three-week vacation, their motor home was broken into and driven off. They lost not only their money and credit cards but inside the vehicle was their precious dog. I felt lucky.

The Peleton July 17, 2011

2011-07-25T05:12:00.003-06:00

Le Tour de France is over and the Aussies are well into celebrating the long-awaited victory of Cadel Evans. I thought I'd post this video of the peleton wizzing by just to give you a sense of the fleeting nature of Le Tour when watched from the roadside. On television, the camera pans the peleton and follows it along the road for miles at a time. There is a difference. Stage 15 started in Limoux on Sunday, July 17. By the time it reached St. Hilaire, 10 km away, a small breakaway pack of 5 had emerged. The peleton took less than 15 seconds to pass us. After all the support vehicles and gendarmes had also moved on, the crowd dispersed. "Is that all there is? Is it really over?" Amy questioned in disbelief. An hour+ driving there, an hour's wait for the publicity caravane, an hour's wait after the publicity caravane, then 15 seconds of peleton. Worth it? You bet. The real motivation was knowing that afterwards we were having lunch at Chez Marie's La Table Cathar in Fanjeaux---cassoulet et chevre chaud. Le Touring so works up an appetite.

At the Vide Grenier

2011-07-25T05:02:00.002-06:00

Sorry the clip is so short. We're having trouble loading long video clips on the blog. However, this old-timer was playing at the vide grenier in Rabaute on Sunday. He was dressed in period costume; wooden sabot and woolen vest. If by some chance, you don't enjoy accordian music, don't worry; this clip is so short it is painless.

A Teaser

2011-07-20T00:36:00.005-06:00

We've been busy tourists the last few days. Here's a brief list of our activities. Yesterday, the Pont du Gard, a long day trip.

The Chateau du Foix in Foix and the Caves in Niaux, the latter, where you can see 13,000 year old cave paintings and take no pictures.

We had a lovely dinner at the Abbe in Camon. I believe Madeleine is the photographer here.

And of course we've driven hundred of kilometers all over southwestern France and seen the stunning scenery. This is a field of sunflowers, or tournesols, just above Rivel, photo courtesy of Nancy. If we get some more time in the next few days, we'll post more on each of these places.

Now You See 'Em....Now You Don't

2011-07-17T11:34:00.008-06:00

Here, I am today posting again. This post is done by Madeleine about Le Tour de France. The photo above is my family and a few of the others waiting and watching. The reason why we are dressed up in coats and many heavy layers is because the weather is quite cold and rainy, despite the fact that it is July 17th.

Our plan was to go to St. Hilaire, northeast of Limoux, but the gendarmes must have barricaded the road shortly before we arrived. How were we supposed to know that? So, of course we had to know if the gendarmes would somehow let us through. All of us couldn't go ask at once because the gendarmes were behind the barrier. So we sent out my mother to ask the gendarmes if we could get through the barrier to reach the road to get to St. Hilaire. My mother was told a swift and strict NO, no madam, c'est fin!!!

Here I am wearing an Etap Hotel hat that is basically the same as a Survivor "buff" (for the non-Yanks, Survivor is a reality TV show). The end is tied off into a knot. It is one of the many promotional items thrown out of the publicite caravans.

This funny vehicle is a promotional caravan that St. Michel, the company that manufactures madeleines (not your blog author). Madeleines are sugary, buttery and soft cookies that I think taste delicious. There were many amusing caravans like this one that went by at a rapid pace, throwing out items for the public's entertainment. The promotional vehicles came by about an hour before the actual riders of Le Tour de France wizzed by.

Here's my loot for which I had to compete with the two French ladies next to us (the Heineken coaster was already on the table). Except I had an advantage---anything that went into the ditch below us I could get to first.

Several hours after we arrived, four helicopters alerted us that Le Tour de France was finally coming. The breakaway pack flew by faster than lightning could strike. Two minutes and 15 seconds later the peleton flashed by. Thomas Voeckler, wearing the yellow jersey, is surrounded by his EuropeCar teammates. As of this time, he is the overall leader of Le Tour de France, and just happens to be French.

We were all so surprised about how fast Le Tour de France riders biked by. We were all wondering "Is it over? Is it over?!" When we truly realized that it was over, everybody almost simultaneously flooded out at the same time. If you look at this photo, you can see that everyone one is crawling towards their cars; but our car was aways away. After we got to our car and reached the motorway, we were able to wiz by like the bikers in Le Tour de France.

Madeleine's Guest Blog---Fun at the Marche Nocturne

2011-07-16T12:24:00.009-06:00

Hi. I'm Madeleine. I am Uncle Doug and Aunt Nancy's niece staying here in the South of France in Leran. This is a picture of me in a sunflower field near Rivel, a village near Chalabre, on our way back from a visit to the Cathar castle of Peyrepertuse.This is at the Marche Nocturne in Leran on Friday evening. The Marche Nocturne is a market in the evening. This picture shows all the people eating their dinners at the Marche Nocturne. The tables everybody was eating at were all lined up down the street. The way you would get your food was you would choose one of the many restaurant/shops or vendors and place your order to get your meal and then take it to your table to eat.

I was walking around the Marche Nocturne and saw these very large cheeses through the glass. I thought I should take a picture of these very large cheeses to put on the blog. You normally don't see very large cheeses like these in the U.S.A. If you ever see very large cheeses like these, then defininitely, buy them and eat them.

I have never ever seen snails being cooked and I have never ever eaten snails and this will continue. Now my father recommended them to me but I did not at all want to even consider the snails as a meal. Perhaps as an unwanted visitor in the garden, but not on my dinner plate. I don't know about you though, maybe you might think of the snails as your most favorite food.

Here I am trying sheep's milk ice cream, you might think it sounds odd but actually the ice cream tastes quite yummy. Last night we met a fellow, a friend of Uncle Doug and Aunt Nancy's, named Julian. He took this picture, and he wanted to introduce me to this ice cream. The owner of the ice cream stand had very interesting and cool flavors of ice cream. Some of the ice cream flavors that he was selling were flavors like: rose petals, rum and raisin, mint and numerous others. I decided to go with the dark chocolate flavor but Julian strongly recommended rose petals. The sheep's milk ice cream was very delicious.

At about half past nine, a man started singing songs in French. When he started we figured that it was that time for Karaoke. At about ten o'clock in the evening my aunt and uncle left. My parents and I decided to stay a little bit longer (we stayed to about eleven). Even though we left at eleven at night the karaoke went on much longer (it went till about 1:00 in the morning). Just a little bit after my aunt and uncle left people started to karaoke, we actually heard some pretty wonderful singers. We had quite a bit of fun yesterday evening at the Marche Nocturne.

Birds of Prey at Peyrepertuse

2011-07-15T01:05:00.004-06:00

We visited the Cathar stronghold of Peyreptertuse again, which we've posted about two or three times, and this time we were able to take in the Birds of Prey Exhibition. Above is the Caracara, native to Central and South America. They are part of the falcon family but not known to be exceptionally fast flyers, causing them a little trouble in the task of killing their prey, therefore, are often seen on carrion. This bird landed on Nancy's baseball capped head and she said if felt like a very strong set of fingers giving her a massage.

They group has one American Bald Eagle in their possession, named Chapin. It was born into captivity in the Netherlands so U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service agents need not worry about the legality. We were able to watch it fly a number of times, and due to the rather brisk winds, it seemed to take almost no effort to fly. It merely had to open it's wings and the wind would propel it into the sky. I can tell you it was a thrilling sight to see it soar down through the valley below, disapear, and suddenly reapear behind you at a great height, all the while seldom even flapping it's wings. And then it would gracefullybegin it's descent, legs outstretched, tailfeathers moving like a rudder to guide him to the waiting arm of his handler. There he would receive a reward of a raw chicken leg.

Above, you can see one of the two falcons landing on the arm of his handler.

And again, same thing, different handler. These falcons, perhaps because of the high winds and effortless nature of their flight, did not return as expected. You could see the concern on the faces and in the voices of the handlers. It was "C'est pas normal." They appeared when the eagle was flying, and did not reappear by the end of the show. The handlers indicated that they would just have to go and find them. It looked like to me that each bird had a GPS unit attached and would be able to be tracked down eventually.

Here is one of the falcons plucking a chicken leg out of the lure. We also saw an African vulture, native to Senegal. Seeing the birds made an interesting day even more exciting.

An Afternoon Visit to the Andrieu Peyret Vinyards

2011-07-13T11:23:00.016-06:00

My sister, brother in law, and niece arrived on the train in Toulouse last evening from Paris and today we started to show them the sights of our region. It was a cool, rainy morning so we slept in, and after lunch headed over to Limoux to the Andrieu vinyard for a tour. You can see the little town of Cepie in the distance and the merlot vinyards in the foreground. Andrieu Peyret makes blanquette (several varieties), Malpere, Pinot Noir Rose and Chardonnay.

Blanquette is the precursor to champagne and the ledgend says that Dom Perignon, he of great fame and wisdom, visited the region centuries ago and took the secret of sparkling wines to the Champagne region, where it became a worldwide success story. That may or may not be true, but the vintners around here swear by it, and I'll buy into the legend until I see proof otherwise.

This gentleman, Andrieu Peyret, is the owner of the vinyard and it has been in his family since the 1850's. In 1986 M. Peyret stopped selling his grapes to the winemakers in Limoux and began making his own wine. A bold and courageous move if you ask me. Here, he stands in front of his Moissac vines, which make up the bulk of blanquette.

The grounds of the vinyard were very picturesque and rustic. It is one of the smaller producers in the blanquette industy and all the functions are performed by three people, mom, pop and one employee (except during the harvest when they hire ten grape pickers). It is from January to March that they actually work the hardest, pruning and preparing the vines for the growing season. Monsieur himself works from sun-up to sun-down, seven days a week. His son is a teacher and the mayor of Cepie, and our interpreter, a rather hardworker himself. He declined to get involved in the business because of the long hours of hard work and I can't blame him.

Here are the grapes themselves, early on in the process. The grapes have only emerged 15 days previously and are not yet fat and juicy, bursting with ripeness.

This is the scale used to weigh the grapes before they go into the crusher. We marvelled at the rather ancient machine; it wasn't digital or electronic and it didn't plug in. But as Monsieur said, " Ca marche." It works.

Here, we're being shown the sediment in the bottle of wine. They store the wine, neck down in a bottle stand, and every day, Monsieur turns the bottle one quarter turn for 21 days. Later on, they extract the sediment in a process which we could not understand given the language problem, but I know other producers have frozen the neck of the bottle and pulled out the frozen sediment and recapped the bottle. Peyret uses some other method, and we saw the machine but failed to understand the process.

Some bottles are saved, at least one bottle for each production run, for each year and they are opened on occasion to check quality and how well they are aging. The rest of the bottles go off to market. About 80% of the blanquette produced around Limoux (the only place it is made) ends up in France and a few other countries. Almost none goes to the U.S.; I would be surprised if you can find very many American wine enthusiasts that know what blanquette is.

After checking out the production aspects of the operation, we retired to the tasting rooms where we sampled three types of blanquette and the other varieties, all very tasty and delicious wines. Monsieur Peyret, it was obvious, was a working stiff. He had dirt under his fingernails, hard callouses on his hands, sweat stains on his t-shirt and clearly did not expect us to show up for a tour today. This was not a slick operation like his nearby neighbor, Gayda wineries (the champion of corporate, highly capitalized vinters) . The buildings were in need of some maintenance, the grounds were in need of someone to pick a few weeds, and Monsieur Peyret could have used a fresh shirt. We've toured the Gayda vinyard several years ago and the contrast couldn't be more obvious. Corporate versus family, new versus old, stark versus friendly, groovy, gourmet restaurant versus nothing, and I could go on. Frankly, although I like the Gayda wines just fine, I'll vouch for the integrity and soul of Peyret's operation every day of the week.

Here's Mimi on the left, my sister Amy and Dan's daughter, with the Peyret's grandaughter, Chloe, and their ferocious dog with the gimpy leg outside the tasting room. We bought some lovely wines and took up some more of the proprietor's valuable time talking about wines and France, and the politics of city management and headed back home to Leran. Remember kids, click on 'em to enlarge 'em.

Cool Toy

2011-07-12T01:56:00.004-06:00

This great toy was for sale at the Mirepoix market a while back. I'm sure you will enjoy seeing it in action, and the sound track is good as well.

Alhambra in Granada

2011-07-07T01:15:00.003-06:00

Those of you who guessed Alhambra in Granada as the location of our last post, were absolutely right. We took a tour, something we rarely do, because we guessed (rightly, I might add) that we would need some interpretation of what we were seeing. I'm not going to give an involved history of Alhambra except to say that it was built by Moorish sultans who had invaded Spain in back in the ninth century. It's first role was as a fortress and then became more or less, a pleasure palace. It was a hot and tiring tour that lasted three and a half hours. Our guide filled us with information and led us all over the Alhambra site as well as the gardens called "Generalife". (Those of you who have an inkling of Spanish know it's not pronounced like it's spelled.)

For those of you who are wondering, the restrictions on entering the palace stipulated that no flash pictures could be taken, and you had to wear a backpack on your front side, not your back, so as not to inadvertently scrape the pack against the walls and pillars. Everyone seemed to ignore the flash photo rule, but you can see the dudes in the photo above did rearrange their packs.

Our guide pointed out that the Moors built the palace with no exterior decoration; all the ornate work is on the inside. She contrasted that with the later additions by "Christians" which had and ornate exterior and interiors which didn't hold a candle to their Moorish counterparts. Here the Moorish construction is on the left and the Christian construction on the right.

If I understood our guide correctly, this pool is where the sultan's wives and concubines bathed and relaxed. The sultan would look out from the window and point out to one of his castrated employees which woman he'd like as his bed partner for the evening.

During the tour, which was very long, but actually felt quite rushed due to the many things to see, it was very difficult to get a photo without other tourists in the foreground or background. There were other tours in other languages going on as well as free lancers, and independent private tour guides. I've forgotten the number on people who see Alhambra in a given year, but it was impressive.

Washington Irving, the American author is credited with bringing the dilapidated condition of the Alhambra to the world's attention with his book "Tales of the Alhambra". He apparently lived in the Alhambra for awhile in the room where this plaque now resides. I must admit, I knew Irving only as the author of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow".

What you might imagine being carved stone is actually plaster cast from a wooden carving, placed on the walls and ceilings and painted beautiful colors, most of which are now gone. Nonetheless, it boggles the mind to imagine the amount of work which took place in Alhambra. Also, something tells me very few of the workers made the 'minimum wage'.

Unfortunately, our visit came at a time when the most remarkable of the items inside the Alhambra was under restoration. Here, there normally resides the twelve stone lions, each with a unique face, with a stone fountain perched on their backs. However, we were able to see pictures of the fountain, and the lions that were finished being restored.

The whole idea of a garden and pleasure palace in this hot dry portion of southern Spain is made possible by the waters from melting snows high in the Sierra Nevada just to the south, between Granada and the Costa del Sol. The Sierra Nevada is Europe's second highest mountain range, after the Alps. A system of aqueducts brings water to the Alhambra, and few places inside the palace are without it. Fountains and pools are everywhere.

The water was also used to grow ornamental plants and food as well, all inside the former fortress and safe from the rabble of the ordinary peasants in the village below.

The Spaniards finally managed to kick the Moorish sultans out of Spain, but not until 1492, the year Columbus sailed off to the west to get to the "East". Ferdinand and Isabella, you will recall, used a room in the Alhambra to meet with Columbus and grant him his ships and funds to make his voyage. What came next was a flood of Aztec and Inca gold to Spain, unspeakable crimes against the Native Americans, not to mention the expulsion of the remaining Muslims from Spain and then the Jews and the Inquisition. Oh, my! What a sordid history has Spain.

Away From Home

2011-07-05T11:09:00.000-06:00

We've been away from home for the last week and perhaps, judging by the photo above, you can guess where we've been. We'll be back in Leran tomorrow and will fill you in on all the details. If you have some idea where this photo was taken, tell us in the comments. Click on it to enlarge it and you will have lots of clues. I'll give you one hint. It's not in France.

Un Sac de Marin

2011-06-23T08:38:00.000-06:00

Normally, a canvas duffle bag hanging on a fence at a vide grenier wouldn't catch my attention---even if only one Euro. But this one wasn't just a duffle. It was "un sac de marin", used by sailors in the Marine Nationale (French Navy). The gentleman selling it proclaimed he wasn't the artist and was more interested in demonstrating the snap closure and carrying handle.

Not knowing anything about any navy, let alone the French navy, I can only offer my interpretation of the illustration. The sailor has his bag packed and is presenting his permission slip for leave to his commanding officer. The officer denies the request and informs the sailor he is to be punished. Where I get lost is the nuance of the officer's statement in the balloon:

Any translators out there? Did this sailor get sent to the brig, have to swab the deck, or get his leave? It's a Euro's worth of torture until I find out.

Ten Million Dead in the Great War

2011-06-23T03:27:00.000-06:00

Almost every time I come upon on of these monuments, naming the dead of WWI, I get out of the car and take a picture. I must have a hundred photos of these monuments. If there is a village in France that doesn't have one of these monuments to the "enfants" lost in World War I, I'd like to know where and why not? Yesterday, as we drove back from Pamiers, we saw three more monument that I hadn't seen because we'd not been to these little villages before. These three towns might have had 200 inhabitants each, and a few more souls in the nearby farmland, and the list of dead always surprises me. How could this little village have sacrificed so many of it's "enfants"? I know that the UK, and Germany, Slovakia and other places have these monuments that name the dead. However, I can't think of single town in the United States that has such a monument to the dead of the "Great War".

Why is this? I don't know for sure, but I am willing to speculate. Look at the list of casualties as listed by Wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_I_casualties France lost 1,397,800 of her young men. That's 4.29% of her total population. Germany lost 2,050,897 or 3.82% of her young men. The UK lost 885,138 or 2.19%. The numbers are absolutely staggering. I am always astounded reading accounts of the generals who so blatantly threw away the lives of their men to gain a hundred feet of useless ground. Almost 10 million people lost their lives in that incredibly stupid war. By contrast, the United States, which came into the war late and tipped the balance over to the Allied side, lost 116,708 soldiers, or a percentage rate of 0.16.

I don't mean to diminish the losses of my countrymen, or diminish the effect we had on the outcome of the war, but our losses were minuscule in comparison. There are no doubt monuments to WWI soldiers somewhere in the US, in fact I think I've seen them in larger towns. But, make no mistake, there are no monuments in every little town all across the country with names of the dead. No doubt because only 0.16% of the population perished in that war; very few American towns lost anyone at all. What a contrast to these three tiny towns in southern France.

We Stumble Upon a Solar Farm

2011-06-23T02:35:00.000-06:00

Yesterday we were driving back from Pamiers and decided to take the back roads through the small towns in the area and we stumbled upon this solar farm. We had known that France derives some 85% of it's electicial energy from nuclear power generation, but we don't know where the other 15% comes from. By looking at this display of solar panels, it's obvious some of it comes from the sun. At first, I thought "What a wonderful idea".

As we drove beside the site we realized it was absolutely enormous. Lo and behold, we arrived at the entrance and there was an informational sign telling us the solar panel array covered 235,362 square meters. For you Americans out there, that's a little over 58 acres. For you urban Americans, that's something like 58 football fields. In any unit of measurement it's a pretty big investment in land area that could be growing food, especially in this rich agricultural region. Besides that downside, photovoltaics produce energy only when the sun is shining brightly, which is during the middle of the day when electric power usage is at it's lowest. Cloudy weather, like yesterday, reduces the output very drastically. And, there's more. Solar energy, like other forms of generation, can't really be effectively stored except in batteries, so it must really be used as it is generated.

I'm all for solar energy, but every form of energy generation has it's downside. We had three solar panels and four golf cart batteries at our cabin in Montana, and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world to see all that free energy pouring into our batteries on a sunny winter day. But this solar installation seems less than totally wonderful, which I first imagined it to be. For some interesting discussion about farms such as this one, go to this link, http://www.navitron.org.uk/forum/index.php?action=printpage;topic=13973.0

They discuss many of the upsides and downsides of this type of solar array, including grazing goats in the solar farm, putting panels on buildings, and putting solar arrays over parking lots. And on another note, I reallize these photos are pretty boring and don't do justice to the subject, but it would have taken a heliocopter to get a good photo of the site. My apologies, still click on 'em to enlarge 'em.

Patriots and Politics

2011-06-21T05:32:00.001-06:00

License plates in European Union countries are a far cry from those in the USA. You won't come across 37 distinct personalized plates per country promoting such interests as college alumnis, professional sports teams, state mottos, tourist landmarks, anything and everything. EU plates have a circle of stars and a letter code of the country beneath it: F (France), GB (Great Britain), PL (Poland), E (Espagne), IRL (Ireland), TR (Turkey), CH (Switzerland), etc. Some are more obvious than others. I recently came across the above plate in Ax-les-Termes: OC for Occitania. Oc is a linguistic region rather than a distinct country defined by political borders. But it is very political in this region, and you will see numerous stickers on vehicles displaying Oc patriotism. Since OC is not an actual country, someone has altered this license plate.

Another highly charged political issue in the Midi-Pyrenees is the re-introduction of bears and wolves. For pretty much the same reasons that grizzlies and wolves find themselves in the hot seat around Yellowstone National Park, Pyreneean sheep ranchers contend that bears and wolves threaten their livelihood. "Neither bears nor wolves" is frequently painted on the roads, this one headed up the Plateau de Beille.

Baaaack in Montana

2011-06-21T04:57:00.000-06:00

On the motorway near Tarascon the other day a little Citroen utility wagon passed us. Nothing unusual there, except when we noticed the cargo. Then I looked closer and counted four sheep in the back seat and a man and a woman up front. All in a vehicle about the size of a Toyota Rav4. It was just like being back in Montana, goin' on a "double date". And speaking of double dates and Montana, check out http://www.duckboy.com/ for hilarious postcard interpretations of interactions between man and nature.

Come with Me on My Morning Walk

2011-06-21T02:14:00.001-06:00

Most mornings I walk out our door, cross the stone bridge, past the chateau and

head down the tree lined lane. I turn the corner and get

another great view of the chateau, this time with the tennis court. The pool is just out of sight on the right. I contunue on

up a gentle hill, through another tree lined lane.

I continue on through more trees until suddenly, the little road breaks out of the trees,

and I have this beautiful view of the village of Leran. In the distance are the eastern reaches of the Pyrenees.

On this particular morning, the hayfield had just been mowed but hadn't been gathered up into large round bales.

At the top of the hill I take a left and head down a little grass path used by walkers, bicycle and horses.

The path takes a left at the River Touyre,

which flows under a small footbridge,

and back to the beginning where it flows beneath the old stone bridge near our house, and I'm home. (Click on 'em to enlarge 'em.)

Are You Feeling Stressed and Irritable?

2011-06-20T10:59:00.001-06:00

Then play this short video and perhaps it will help you relax. This little video is taken at the end of the paved road on the Plateau de Bielle where the Tour de France will finish on July 16. There are cross country ski trails, dog sled trails and hiking trails leading off from the little station at the summit. The ringing noise is the cowbell that each cow wears so that the responsible party can find them (I couldn't decide on the correct term; shepherd, cowherd, cowboy, rancher). When you are close enough to them, the sound of the cowbell is deafening.

Hats Off as Traditional Beret Fades out of French Fashion

2011-06-19T05:36:00.000-06:00

By Philip Delves Broughton in Oloron Sainte Marie
02 Aug 2002

Farm workers, philosophers and gamines winking astride their bicycles made the beret an icon of French life.

Whether worn low over the brow, in the style of Basque shepherds, or aslant, like Jean-Paul Sartre, tipped back like a carefree Breton sailor or straight like a Resistance heroine, the beret became a symbol of France.

But now, it has all but vanished from everyday life and the remnants of the beret industry are struggling for survival.

Forty years ago, there were 15 beret factories in Oloron-Sainte Marie, France's beret capital, a picturesque town in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Now there is just one, employing 85 people, mostly women, churning out berets for armies from New Zealand to South America, and a few for the domestic market.
But even the foreign markets are drying up. The Cubans, for example, now use cheaper manufacturers in the Far East. Their last big order, for 20,000, came in 1997 for the 30th anniversary of Che Guevara's death.

A beret bought in a a souvenir shop in France has probably been made in China. It will be very different from the real, hand-crafted French beret but few seem to care.
"We suffer from the savagery of fashion," said Bernard Fargues, the head of Beatex, the last beret maker in town. A thin, lugubrious man, M Fargues is all business and wears a beret only for special occasions.

In Bearn, close to the Spanish border, the beret is a symbol of rural independence, both French and Basque. The earliest record of it is in 13th century stone carvings on a local church. Shepherds found it warm and versatile, as it rarely blew off in mountain storms and could be pulled over the eyes at night. It became known as the beret basque.

Its popularity surged in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in France and soon the fashion industry adopted it, making it a popular item for American women in the 1920s. Then came the British army, followed by the Americans, and the Boy Scouts.

By the 1950s, the beret was everywhere, on children and celebrities, such as Che, the jazz musician Thelonius Monk and the artist Picasso. There was even a French cartoon superhero, SuperDupont, who wore a beret and striped shirt and carried a cockerel.

"Urbanisation ruined everything," said M Fargues. "At first when rural people moved into the cities, they carried on wearing the beret. And the intellectuals began to wear it as a symbol of solidarity.

"They were cheaper than the formal hats that the bourgeois wore. But then people stopped wearing berets in the towns because it came to be seen as a sign of a provincial, a peasant. Beret wearing declined in proportion to the rural exodus."
French newspaper cartoonists still use the beret as shorthand for pompous jingoism or nostalgia in politicians. Older men in rural communities, especially in the south, still wear them.

But Beatex and the only other French maker, Blancq-Olibet, in the nearby town of Nay, have had to lay off workers in recent years. Blancq-Olibet has set up a small museum to try to boost interest in the product.

"We've thought about asking for government help," said M Fargues. "It hasn't yet come to that, but it's not easy. The Americans are particularly protective of their beret makers, which deprives us of a big market." His factory produces 700,000 berets a year, of which just a tenth are the traditional berets basques.
Among the French, though, the beret seems to have retreated to its rural domain, patiently waiting for its next turn in the spotlight.

Hot Hot Air

2011-06-13T02:20:00.004-06:00

Sometimes at a vide grenier, I see an item that isn't just the typical bed linens or baby clothes or old tools. Yes, sometimes there really are those one-or-a-kind things that deserve notice. Such is the Mari Gonflable, the inflatable husband. As the packaging highlights, M. Gonflable possesses superior qualities:

All your friends will love him. No danger of annoying your parents. Always tries to be pleasing. Doesn't watch football on TV. Never farts. 100% faithful. and...floats!

If you are interested in acquiring 1 meter of pure happiness, then Mari Gonflable just might be your dream partner. I did not take M. Gonflable out of the box to determine exactly what dimension the 1 meter referred. In the interest allowing others to partake this experience, I left M. Gonflable on the table in La Bastide S/l'Hers.

Where Carte Bancaire Is Not Welcome

2011-06-13T01:24:00.008-06:00

We were just getting into the car after a couple hours wandering around the castle of Saissac when the noon church bells started chiming. To me, this is always a good sound because it means restaurants in France will begin serving lunch. Not a minute before. Then we realized that there was a welcoming restaurant just across from the car park, and the sun was shining for the first time in nearly two weeks. Serendipity! We picked the table in the fullest sun, ordered lunch and a pichet of rose, and felt good. Doug's quiche lorraine starter literally hung over the edges of the plate so I easily talked him into a few bites. His chicken curry and my lasagne evaporated before I even thought of taking a few photos of the presentation. We rarely have coffee with lunch, but this day we just didn't want to abandon the sunshine after the slimy weather we had been suffering.

The proprietor, who had earlier proudly told us that he had been to New York, brought the bill. When I handed him my Carte Bancaire card, he both verbally and demonstratively indicated that he did not take that card. I offered my Visa, but soon discovered no plastic was acceptable. He suggested a check, which I did not have. I asked him why he did not accept credit cards, a young man sitting at the bar responded something to the effect that "we are not Parisians." The proprietor concurred, with a sense of honor in his demeanor. I suggested that I would go to the bank and asked where the nearest CredAg was. "Carcassonne" I was told. That didn't seem logical at the time. I scoured my purse for Euros, turning up no paper bills but only small coinage being saved to use at vide greniers. I had approximately 18 Euros, which I offered to apply to the 40 Euro bill.

The proprietor then asked me for an ID, and I understood that he would hold it ransom until I mailed him a check. Upon receipt of my payment he would return mail my driver's license. Since the Leran La Poste wasn't open Friday, my chauffeur drove me to Laroque d'Olmes. Within thirty minutes of transacting my business at La Poste, I regretted not including a self-addressed stamped envelope to make the proprietor's part easier. With no mail delivery on Monday (the day after Pentecost) I don't expect my check to arrive until Wednesday.

In the meanwhile, if anyone sees my Colorado driver's license being offered for sale on Ebay, please let me know. I'd include a photo of it for authenticity, but I'm unable to right now. I'm also making sure I carry some real cash with me from now on.

The SILENCE of Oradour-sur-Glane

2011-06-10T08:33:00.015-06:00

At the entrance of the destroyed village of Oradour-sur-Glane, a large weathered sign rests at the base of a tree. "SILENCE" is its only caution. This visit will be painful. The village that exists after the events of June 10, 1944, cannot help but evoke a gut-level reaction. This did not occur hundreds of years ago. It was not a radical religious incident. As if to think that either of those situations would justify, let alone explain, what happened.

Walking down the streets of Oradour-sur-Glane was surreal. I felt like I was on location of a Hollywood movie set. It was like a giant grotesque dollhouse. Doors, windows and roofs were missing, and walls were crumbling. The cityscape was disturbing, abandoned. What could burn, did...and disappeared forever. What didn't burn were objects of metal, iron and steel. These materials, usually considered cold and calculating, are what today gives Oradour-sur-Glane its lasting humanness. Their tortured form is part of the monument and have not been moved.

We began our journey walking down Rue Emile Desourteaux. Name plates have been erected outside numerous buildings, identifying the inhabitants and/or shop proprietors on June 10, 1944: Vin-Spiriteux -- L. Denis; Forgeron -- D.-B. Beaulieu; Carrier-Puisatier -- J.-B. Doire; or Courtier -- M. Picat, to name a few.

We read the signs as we looked inside the buildings, and imagined what their lives were like before 2:00 pm on that June day. The objects of iron and steel that remain in these houses link us to L. Denis, D.B. Beaulieu, J.B. Doire and M. Picat, their families, and to what happened that day. This is all that is left of the lives of 642 people, but it helps to tell their story. They were alive, engaged in their occupations, socializing with family and friends, or handling household chores.

There may have been people sitting at the cafe, chatting about plans for the weekend.

Young girls might have been learning to sew their first dress on their mother's Singer sewing machine.

Teenage boys could have been tuning up their cycles for a big ride after church on Sunday.

Since it was Saturday, some men might have dropped their car at the garage to have tires changed.

There might have been people lined up at the gas pump, using their ration cards to top off the tank. In other words, before 2:00 pm, nothing was much out of the ordinary for wartime.

Plaques are posted on the interior walls of houses, listing the inhabitants present on June 10. The plaques tell us that entire families were wiped out.

Continuing walking through the town, and now we see signs not about the livelihoods of the people but signs about their death. "Here, the place of torture, a group of men were massacred and burned by the Nazis. Meditate." Another sign reads "Here were found two bodies burned to ashes." The descriptions are not intended to be pretty, but accurate.

Inside the church it feels especially cold. The rain begins to fall harder through the roofless structure. The church is good-sized, but I try to imagine 240 women and 205 children and babies being locked in here on a June day that is not cold and rainy. This is where all but one woman was burned to death. The altar and baptismal font have been damaged. On the floor in front of the altar lies a collapsed baby pram. Was this mother out on promenade when she was so ruthlessly rounded up? Twenty children murdered that day were less than one year old.

Small personal artifacts that were found afterwards were placed in a display case in an underground memorial next to the cemetery. One case held numerous burned pocket watches, all of which had stopped working between 16:00 and 17:00 hours (4:00 pm - 5:00 pm). The time on the watch indicated the approximate death of the individual wearing it.

The regular tramway from Limoges arrived in Oradour-sur-Glane that evening at 7:30 pm. I have tried to imagine what the passengers saw and felt upon their arrival. I do not think the imagination is that powerful. Recueillez-vous.

The Sorrow of Oradour sur Glane

2011-06-08T23:00:00.002-06:00

This is the entrance to the museum, visitor center and to the former village of Oradour sur Glane. On June 10, 1944, the people of the village were rounded up by the SS and shot and burned. Six Hundred Forty-two people perished on that day and no one really knows why. Survivors, of which there were only a handful, describe an almost leisurely process of the Germans rounding up the residents and herding them to the town square. They were then divided into six groups. Most of the women and children were forced into the village church. Other locations held various groups of men, boys and others.

At around four o'clock in the afternoon, a grenade was exploded as a signal device, and the massacre commenced. A handful escaped, one woman from the church, and five young men from a barn. After the machine gunning of the villagers, the SS set fire to the entire town with straw and hay, oil and petrol poured on the bodies and other flamable items tossed into the mixture. The Germans left only their command post in the village untouched. They returned the following day to bury the bodies and try to cleanse the scene of their involvement.

After the war was finally over, General Charles DeGaulle visited the village and declared that it should remain in it's present condition for all time as a reminder of the vagaries of war.

In this confessional inside the village church, two young children were found with their arms wrapped around each other. Their bodies were dessicated by the intense heat.

Inside the church, where the women and children were, was this marble commemoration of the dead soldiers of World War I. Two stray bullets from the massacre left their mark on the names from the previous atrocity.

Very little of the 642 dead was recovered due to the intensity of the fires. Most bodies could not be identified. In the cemetary, inside a sealed vial are some of the charred bones and bodily
remains.

The cemetary has a series of plaques that display all the names of the dead in alphabetical order. I didn't think to count the plaques, but I'm guessing there were easily six or seven of them. To walk through the cemetary was a totally different emotional experience from that of wandering through the village itself. Pictures of the dead are everywhere along with names, ages and their relationships to others. As sad as it was to see the ruined village, it was infinitely more troubling to see the cemetary with it's tokens of sorrow. Note: I just noticed that Monsieur Compain and his wife are listed on this plaque. His photo is in the previous post, leaning out of his bakery window.

In the days following the massacre, locals were engaged in cleaning up the bodies and trying to sort out the mess the Germans had made. This is one of the few photos from the recovery effort.

In our next post, we'll present some photographs of the town as it appears today, assuming you want to see them.

Once Upon a Time

2011-06-08T03:35:00.006-06:00

Once upon a time there was a peaceful village in the midst of war-torn Europe. It was in Vichy France and the horrors of war had mostly bypassed Oradour Sur Glane. It sits some 20 kilometres from Limoges, the renowned city of porcelan and enamels and Limousin oak barrels used in the manufacture of Cognac. There was a tramway running from Limoges to Oradour and people used to come out for the day to picnic or fish in the peaceful River Glane for an afternoon. The folks in Oradour had rarely seen German soldiers and rationing and shortages were the only hint of war. In the picture above, Monsieur Copain leans out of the window of his patisserie. He would be dead in the very near future.

There was a newly formed football club competing in the 1944-45 season. In the top row are Rene Mercier, Henri Bouchoule and Joseph Bergmann, among others, but those three would soon be dead.

Here is a photograph of the boys school, class of 1936-37. Robert Hebras is in the second row with the large white scarf. Eight years later, he would survive while others in this picture would die a gruesome death.

This picture is of Georgette and Denise Hebras, sister of Robert. They would both soon be dead.

This is the girl's school photo for 1943. In a year, almost everyone in this picture would die together in the village church, either of bullet wounds or by the fires that followed.

It is very peaceful and picturesque in this photo from around 1900, but today, it looks nothing like this. As we know, southern France returned to near normal after the German invasion and the fall of Paris. The Germans were interested in occupation of the Atlantic coastline to prevent an invasion, and keeping the Parisians in line. Southern France, for the most part was left on it's own. On June 6, 1944 the Allies invaded the Normandy beaches and the French Resistance stepped up operations of sabotage, and everything changed.

A division of the SS began moving towards Normandy and found themselves near Oradour on June 8th. On that night the Maquis blew up a railway bridge near Saint-Junien, which is near Oradour. A few nights before, a German Sturmbannfuher was taken captive by l'Resistance. These events, or perhaps other events, led up to what happened on June 10, 1944. No one knows for sure, and the German Army and Nazi regime remained silent on the ultimate reasons. The result was the slaughter of Oradour sur Glane.

A Side Trip to Rocamadour

2011-06-08T01:37:00.009-06:00

The other day we decided we needed a break from toilet repair, tile setting and other home rennovation details that we have neglected for five years to take an overnight trip to a destination that we have wanted to visit for some time now. No, not Rocamadour, but the beautifuly situated village was on the way, so we decided to make a small detour and take it in. The above photo is taken from somewhere in the center of the photograph below. From the village you can only see rooftops, the valley below and the cliffs on the opposite side of the valley.

You get a glimpse or two of Rocamadour as you approach it, but only the rooftops and the monastery. You don't get much of an idea of the crazy way it perches on the side of a cliff until you drive around a corner and "Voila", there it is. I suppose there are other villages in France or Italy, or somewhere, that perch enchantingly on the side of the cliff like this, but I don't know where it would be. It is very dramatic, and sadly, about the only reason to visit the place.

For all it's undeniable charm from afar, the town lacks much other reason to visit. It was lunchtime so we sat down and had a bite, but it was nothing to write home about. The village itself is loaded with boutiques, souvenir shops, postcard sellers and the other vendors that tend to destroy the ambiance of Mount St. Michel and Carcassonne as well.

We climbed the Grand Escalier, and it wasn't as greuling as I had feared, even after lunch. You can choose to take an elevator that hauls you most of the way up; 2 Euro up and 3 Euro round trip. Like the Grand Canyon, it was almost easier climbing up than it was going down, and less dangerous. They should amend the price to reflect that fact. In the photo above the grand staircase goes through a beautiful doorway into the approach to the church and monastery, and more steps.

Nancy went up further to the subterranean church of St. Amadour that lies beneath St. Saveur. On the summit is the chateau built to defend the village.

We spent about two hours in Rocamadour and then headed on towards Limoges, where 20 some kilometers outside of the city is the little village of Oradour sur Glane, the reason for our excursion. Stay tuned, kids, and click on em' to enlarge em'.

Stopper in the Name of Love

2011-06-01T08:08:00.005-06:00

On June 12, 1901, an incident occurred in Karnes County Texas. The Cortez brothers, Gregorio and Romaldo, were interrogated by Sheriff Brack Morris for suspected horse thievery. The Sheriff was accompanied by deputy Boone Choate, who was apparently fluent in "Mexican". Through prior questioning of locals, Choate had learned that Gregorio had recently acquired a mare through a trade. When questioning Cortez, the deputy asked him if he had recently acquired a caballo (stallion). Gregorio responded no, that he had acquired a yegua (mare). The deputy did not comprehend the distinction (a horse is a horse...) and did not property translate. The Sheriff then shot and wounded Romaldo, which then prompted Gregorio to shoot and kill the Sheriff. A bad translation can really mess up a day. (To find out what happens to Gregorio, check out the film 'The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez').

My "Gregorio Cortez" moment happened last week. No shooting, no wounding. But a really bad translation. Our copy of the FLASH INFO LERAN for Mai 2011 arrived in the mailbox, the untranslated French version. An English-language version is distributed to the homes of the not-so-fluent residents at a later date. This translated version is quite an ambitious project for such a small village. The Flash Info Leran isn't highbrow, just your basic articles and adverts essential to the daily comings and goings of Leran. For instance, this month there is/was the Fete du Village, Faites des Jardins, and a teaser for the up-coming Marche Gorumand Nocturne. But there was one advert in particular that caught my attention: Les Bouchons d'Amour.

I painstakingly make a stab to translate the Flash Info before the English version arrives, just to test my reading skills. I pick out words I know and let the context paint the picture. So, when I got to the full-page ad about Les Bouchons d'Amour, imagination won out over translation. I knew "bouchons" from tire-bouchon, a corkscrew. Bouchon, to mean plug, stopper, cork, etc. And who hasn't heard of "amour"----love. So, follow my thinking here. Les bouchons d'amour, the stopper of love, the love plug. Could it mean a condom?

Over at the bar later that evening, I posed my puzzlement to Marek. Initially, Les Bouchons d'Amour didn't ring a bell to him. He concurred that "bouchons" was indeed a stopper and amour was love. Then he pulled his Flash Info Leran out of his mailbox, turned to the page in question and Voila! He rushed back into the bar and brought out a bag of bottle tops. Les Bouchons d'Amour is asking people to collect bottle tops which are then traded for sports equipment for people with disabilities. All kinds/types/sizes of bottle tops from a variety of products are accepted in the receptacle in front of the Mairie.

Speaking of condoms, it reminds me of a story. A friend was staying with a French host family when she was a college exchange student. The first morning, the family was seated around the table. Michelle wanted to practice her French and ask for the jar of jam to be passed. She couldn't think of the French word for jam or jelly, so decided that "preservative" had that French sound to it. What she said came out something like "passez moi le preservatif" and immediately the two children started giggling uncontrollably. The parents attempted to hide their laughter. When she asked why they were so beside themselves, the mother responded "you asked to be passed a condom".

Musicians Here and There

2011-05-30T05:08:00.003-06:00

These musicians were playing at the Esperaza Market on Sunday, and the accordian player at the Mirepoix Market today. There is little to say except that enthusiam goes a long way.

Knife Sharpener at the Mirepoix Market

2011-05-23T07:53:00.003-06:00

Every Monday morning at the Mirepoix Market there is a knife sharpening vendor with his equipment set up under a couvert near a particular restaurant. He always has a bunch of customer's knives sitting on his bench, along with scissors, pruners and anything else you can sharpen with a grinding wheel. Customers leave their knives and shop for awhile and give him time to work on them. The wheel operates with an ancient pedal mechanisim, like a treadle sewing machine.

Today I took my folding knife to him for its first ever professional sharpening, and here is the "gentleman" working on it. I use "gentleman" in quotes only because he looks like a bald headed pirate, or a character from a movie about the apocolypse. But regardless of his appearance, he is a gentleman. He always has a hand rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth and sports a billy goat's beard. His fingers are knobby and calloused and he's always nursing beer sitting on his grinding wheel frame, no matter that it is ten o'clock in the morning.

I'm glad to report that the knife is like new, in fact, much sharper than it was when I bought it five years ago. Definitely worth the 2 euro. Click on 'em to enlarge 'em.

The French: Paragons of Good Taste. Or Not?

2011-05-22T12:05:00.004-06:00

A lot of Americans are beguilled by France (and more accurately, Paris) as the center of the universe when it comes to class, style and refinement. And indeed, there are certain members of my family (you know who you are) hold up the French as the pinnacle of good taste. I have always had my doubts. So today, at a Vide Grenier in Le Peyrat I saw so much junk being offered for sale that I knew what I had to do. I took pictures of some of the more offensive garbage. It was not easy to do with a straight face as the owners were, for the most part, sitting behind the table or standing nearby, beaming proudly at their possessions that they were sadly parting with. So, without further ado, here are some of the least tastefull of the items. Bear in mind that the weather was not cooperating, and a heavy mist demanded that many of the items be covered by plastic and I could only take pictures of the least valuable items left out in the rain.

What do you think of this beautiful clock that also doubles as a candlelabra? Very chic, n'est pas?

Or what about this touching painting of a weeping child, complete with an ornate frame. Do you like it? Would you like to see it on your living room wall? Of course, who wouldn't?

How about this plaster image of a woman mooning? Something to have in your home, no doubt. If you don't have something like this, and you want it, please note that it is not "one of a kind". There were two, one more at the top of the picture exactly like it, so the value is half what you might think.

Any one these items would add grace and sophistication to your home if it was sitting on your mantel. But if you had all four, friends and neighbors would line up on Saturdays to see them displayed. Well, at least my neighbors would.

Who is this guy? Is he famous or the son of someone in Le Peyrat?

And lastly, this sculpture. Who doesn't love clowns? Feel free to leave your comments if you wish, and remember, to see these objects larger, just click on em'.

We Left for France and I Forgot the Key to the House

2011-05-19T01:12:00.006-06:00

That's right. I drove all the way from Montrose to Denver, spent a few days with my sister, and only on the way to the airport did I remember that something had been left behind. The key to the house. In all of our preparations for travel, airline reservations, packing, arrranging for Fergus, I never bothered to put the key into my luggage. As luck would have it, we were able to call Bill and Sally on the way to the Denver Airport and ask them to drop a key by the house. Thankfully they were home, had a key and could drop it by. I had a real moment of panic imagining how to break into our own house with zero tools at hand. And that's why you will now see this on our door. It's a small key safe and if you know the combination, you can get in the house.

Happy Mother's Day to All You Mothers

2011-05-06T12:24:00.005-06:00

Nancy and I wish a Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there. Our own mothers are long gone, but we have not forgotten them. Here are some pictures from the "wayback machine". Above, is Nancy's mom, Suzanne Kitchen (1912-1997) when she was perhaps 20 years old, posing in some photographer's studio in Chicago. She looks very chic and rather elegant and it's hard to remember that this is 'smack dab' in the middle of the Great Depression.

Here's a drawing of my mother Margaret Cunningham (1920-1974) done by Bob Bowie, a friend of hers that was, by all accounts, hopelessly in love with her. It's not a great likeness of my mother in 1943, but its a nice drawing and I can tell its her. It appears old Bob spent a lot of time working on her hair and got it just right. Pardon the wrinkles in the paper; it's pasted into her scrapbook.This is a photograph of my mother from the same time frame (the early 40's) that I found in her scrapbook. She's on the right, the tall one with the good legs, accepting some kind of trophy. I don't think there is a photo in existence of my mother without her cigarette (and she was an asthmatic) and this photo appears to be no exception. I have no idea who the other woman is, probably another Colorado College coed (she's smoking and has a trophy, too).

Remember kids, click on 'em to enlarge 'em. And don't forget your mother on Mother's Day.

Europe on $5 a Day, Part III

2011-04-15T16:55:00.017-06:00

Two months ago, before we left for Mexico, this blog was telling the fabulously interesting and heartwarming story of my first trip to the "continent" in 1972. Do you remember where I left off; getting on a train for Vienna where I had an old girlfriend and an even older cousin? No? Well, that's all right, because it wasn't true. We went to Florence instead. My pathetic journal records almost nothing about Florence except that it rained off and on, and that it was a Sunday, a free day at the museum and therefore very crowded. But I do remember the Uffizi Palace museum where we saw works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Titian, Michelangelo, Fra Lippo Lippi and Albrect Durer, just to mention the high points. There is no point in me writing about what we saw there because I could not say anything relevant that hasn't already been said by someone much more eloquently than I, and secondly, I am somewhat underwhelmed by Renaissance art. But I do remember being floored by Michelangelo's "David". Of course, I had seen pictures of it a thousand times, but standing right next to his famous masterpiece has an incredible power over your senses.

Mais oui, the city is very enchanting. As you probably know, only one bridge across the River Arno survived the bombing of WWII. The Ponte Vecchio was the first bridge I'd ever seen with structures, homes and shops on it. In fact, it was hard to appreciate that you were on a bridge at all. My journal records that we got lost, hopelessly lost, and finally got on a bus until we could get our bearings and find our way back to our pension.

I don't record it my journal but the most exciting thing I did in Florence was buy a bicycle. Part of my original plan for this European tour was to do some of it on a bicycle. Scott, my travel partner, was less than thrilled with the idea and no way was he going to buy a bike. Without a doubt it was for the best that we never attempted to travel by bike because we had no knowledge of panniers and campgrounds, handlebar bags and luggage racks, much less the difference between a touring bike and bike built for racing. However, I simply could not resist the great disparity between the U.S. dollar and the Italian Lire. I bought a Coppi racing bike with sew-up tires and Campognolo derailleurs. It was light as a feather and you could lift it with one finger. It would not have lasted five minutes carrying panniers loaded down with a tent and sleeping bag and me in the saddle. I paid $130 which was probably 20 or 30 million lire and when I got it home, it was appraised at around $500. I shipped it to Vienna, our next stop on our European tour.

Vienna was an important destination for me because I had an old girlfriend going to school there, and my cousin Judy and her husband Dave were working there. "Old" girlfriend is a misnomer because I was recently graduated from college and Susan was still in high school, doing her senior year abroad. The age difference had doomed the relationship several years before, but we had remained good friends. Susan was the daughter of a Czech couple living in Chicago, and Vienna was the closest anyone could get at the time to Czechoslovakia which was off limits, tucked away behind the Iron Curtain. Susan was living in the apartment of a very proper Viennese lady, a spinster or widow, who filled the dark and musty place with antique china, doilies and chintz. Between Frau Spinsterhaus and my buddy Scott, the relationship remained dormant but we were able to go out and explore Vienna with Susan. She took us to the Hapsburg Crypts, which was filled with bones and skulls. I don't remember seeing this skull, pictured above, with the monstrous crown, but I do remember wondering why anyone would save all the bones from all the family members and pile them in one dank cellar. Susie also took us for a visit to a coffee house where we had expensive cups of strong black coffee and sacher-torte, the iconic Viennese chocolate cake, and watched proper Viennese in near formal attire drinking coffee.

We also looked up my cousin Judy, who is perhaps ten years older than I am. Dave was away, travelling for business and I can't remember whether he was with the State Department or a University Professor, but sweet cousin Judy took us to Schoenbrunn Palace, the humble home of the Hapsburg clan. I've not been to Versailles, and I'm sure Schoenbrunn looks like a log cabin in comparison, but it was nonetheless very impressive. As with other places of this vintage and opulence, I always wonder how anyone was able to stay warm in the winter. The ceilings were 20 feet high and all the rooms were the size of small houses. Each room, as I recall had a grandiose fireplace that everyone must have huddled around all winter rubbing their hands together. Still, it was very beautiful and formidable, a great ostentatious display of power and wealth, and very suitable for the rulers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. (Does anyone know how many languages were spoken in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and what they were?) We said "Goodbye" to Judy, went to dinner with Susan at her favorite restaurant, said "Auf Weidersein" to Susan, and hit the bars.

We left on the morning train to Amsterdam. Germany was a disappointment for us. Very green landscape, but flat and uninspiring. The larger cities were bombed to rubble during the war and seemed a tad modern and again, uninspiring. We got off in Hannover, but there was an industrial fair going on and we could not find a place to stay, so we got back on the train and went to Nurnburg. It might have been interesting to explore Nurnburg and learn about the war crimes trials, but money was short, Germany was expensive and Amsterdam beckoned.

I was excited to arrive in Amsterdam because of all it's wonderful attractions. Nowhere was I more impressed with the art museums than in Amsterdam....whole museums dedicated to Van Gogh and Rembrandt, primarily, but works by Vermeer, Frans Hals and literally hundreds of others.

At that time, of course, Amsterdam was the center of the world for vibrant, young, hip, culturally groovy guys like Scott and I. But really, to be painfully honest, I think we were flabbergasted by the "youth scene". We'd grown up in Denver, which at the time was an overgrown cowtown, and gone to college in a mountain hick town where the 3,000 students overwhelmed the 2,900 conservative residents. We were not movers and shakers. What we found in Amsterdam was a place that throbbed and pulsed, where, like San Francisco at the same time, 'anything goes'. The "Red Light District" was overflowing with prostitutes in windows, most of them young and gorgeous, and you could stick your head in and ask them how much to partake and they would answer in English. There was the scent of weed in the air, and special bars sold and allowed people to smoke grass. Porn was displayed in shop windows and sex toys, leather accessories, dildos and lingerie were on view. The Heineken Brewery offered tours and then a free tasting of their product (and snacks) on a rooftop terrace overlooking the city. I don't recall anyone telling us we had to quit drinking the free beer. Bicycles were parked in gigantic groups, and beautiful people wandered the street and bicycled over the bridges across the canals. I seem to recall a large plaza and a fountain where hippies and free spirits from all countries congregated, selling cars and motorcycles for their European journeys, selling and exchanging drugs, and meeting others for a night or a lifetime. In short, it was just like Disneyland for adults, and like Disneyland it wasn't free.

Alas, our Eurail pass was within a day of expiring and our traveller's cheques were dwindling to the final few. We had a choice. We could stay in Disneyland, cruise the "Red Light District", drink free Heineken beer, hang out in the plaza and with hippies and vagrants, go to the Anne Frank house, go to more art museums, and then take a few days to get back to Luxembourg and catch a flight home. Or, we could go to London.

To Be Continued

A Couple of Things About Mexico

2011-03-29T12:30:00.002-06:00

One has to remember that Mexico is still classified as a Third World country. While we were travelling, we saw scenes like this donkey train in San Miguel. We read in a guidebook that garden soil was still delivered by this method, possibly because there are places too difficult to get to with a motorized conveyance. Whatever the reason, we saw several examples of timeless technology that I've never seen in the States; donkey carts moving hay, shepherds with their flocks between the lanes of the highway, a man with a scythe cutting grass for his cattle, and a horse pulling a plow with a man ahead of him sowing seed.

As you drive through Mexico you notice a country that can't keep up with it's population growth. Buildings are in all phases of construction, mostly unfinished and unfinished for years. There is hardly a bulding that doesn't have rebar sticking out of the top of the wall. Schoolkids go home at noon to make room for the second shift of young scholars to use the same desks and classrooms. In places, there is no trash pickup service. You're on your own to get it to the landfill, if there is one. A plastic bag caught on a bush, waving in the breeze, is probably the most common sight in Mexico. And sadly, the trash seems to consist of things that will never decompose; plastic bottles, plastic bags, and plastic toys. It's very sad to witness, but I saw the following a dozen times: people would roll down the window of their car and out would come a bag of junk, people standing on the street would toss away a recipt or a napkin from an ice cream cone, a plastic bottle would get tossed onto the roadside without a thought. Very typical. Very sad.

Goodbye to San Miguel

2011-03-27T09:57:00.006-06:00

We made an excellent house exchange in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Our trading partners have a most wonderful, beautiful and luxurious house. The hacienda has a very unique entrance or approach off of a busy street leading out of the city. There is an archway that has, I believe, living quarters above. You go through the tunnel and up a steep hill (and you've already gained several hundred feet from central San Miguel) to the terrace.

Here's Nancy trudging up the final few feet with the house in the background. The owners call it "2010 territory", meaning it's 10 minutes down to the center of town on foot, and 20 pesos back up by taxi. Well, they were 5 or 10 pesos off the mark, but maybe we got the tourist rate.

There were three levels of terraces with doorways off almost every room onto one terrace or another. We spent a lot of time outside soaking up the sun and looking out at the city.

Nancy captured the moonrise one evening before we headed down into town for dinner.

Out of respect for the privacy of the owners, I won't post any pictures of the interior, but it was very beautifully and tastefully done, as you might imagine from the photos of the exterior. You can see the first, second and third level terraces in this picture, and all of them have green, lush plants everywhere.

Nancy also took this picture of the sun setting over the western mountains with San Miguel in the foreground. We had an interesting time, and here and there, met a few of the several thousand ex-pats, mostly American and Canadian, that live in San Miguel. We left early one morning and were not too far outside San Antonio, Texas that night. Two more days of driving got us home safely.

A Visit to the Pyramids...of San Miguel

2011-03-19T10:29:00.008-06:00

We took a day trip to the newly revealed pyramids near San Miguel de Allende, called Canada de la Virgen (there should be a tilde over the "n" in Ca-nhe-da but I don't know how to add it). Our guide was Albert Tyler Coffee, a Louisianan by birth but now with a Mexican wife and two kids, and living in San Miguel. He is a anthropolgist/archaeologist who helped with the archaeology and excavation work done on the pyramids. He told us many times during the day that these pyramids are not really newly "discovered", only newly unearthed and now known to Europeans. The indigenous people have known they were there all along and indeed, can point out other mounds of earth, here and there, that hide additional Mesoamerican structures.

We also were accompanied by "rangers" who were awarded jobs for their volunteer work in the archaeological process. In other words, they were the labor force. They watched us very carefully so that we did not remove artifacts or step where we shouldn't.

The pyramids were on private land, which is now owned by the Mexican government, but the approach is totally on private land. Therfore we had to walk the last kilomenter and a half to the site. You can see a shuttle van in the background.

There are four or five structures, only three of which have been uncovered. They date to 540 to 1050 AD. On the ride out to the pyramids I was talking with Albert and asking him some questions. I asked which of the many pyramids in Mexico were his favorites because he'd been to them all. He replied; "No bullshit, this one." The many features relating to the calendar and astronomical observations made it most intriguing for him. The pyramids are oriented on an East/West axis and on the equinox, the sun sets just about in the center of the notch, where the man is standing in the above photo. Other dates are marked as well, including the solstices, best days to plant and harvest, and other important dates in the Otomi year. These pyramids are the most northerly structures of the Mesoamerican culture and were abandoned quickly about 1200 AD due to drought or attack from the tribes to the north.

Skeletal remains of a human were found at the top of the above pyramid during excavation. Carbon dating showed the skeleton to be 770 to 440 BC. According to signage at the site, "...this means that the remains had been dead and mummified for 1033 years before he was buried in the Red Temple of the Canada de la Virgen." Whoever this person was, he must have been very sacred to the pyramid builders for them to haul around his carcass around Mexico for one thousand years before permanently planting him in his stone tomb.

A lot of pottery artifacts were found, and these were the great clues to the archaeologists adding much information about the people and their lifestyle. These skeletal remains were long referred to as a woman who was a warrior, and later didcovered to be bones of a 9 - 12 year old child. Note the triangular-shaped object sticking out of the top of her skull. This would have been done at the time of internment.

We were allowed to climb up into the top of the pyramid up a very steep set of stairs. Not too long ago, when the pyramids were still coverd with dirt and vegetation, cowboys used to ride their horses to the top up a ramp of fallen stones, to look for thier cattle. The pyramids are constructed of stone, some of it dressed, which I think one or two men could carry. The Otomi had no beasts of burden (i.e. horses, cattle, llamas) and no wheeled carts (except as toys) so they built these structures by carrying the stones in their hands or on their backs.

Coming down the stairs was more precarious than going up. Some of our tour group opted out of the climb. About half of my foot fit on the steps. It is theorized the steps are so steep for three reasons. First, the people who built them were quite small and secondly, a sacrificed body would tumble nicely down the steps, and lastly, because the stairs are so difficult to navigate attackers would be very vulnerable.

After the tour, we were taken to a nearby hacienda, the headquarters for a cattle ranch owned by five brothers, to have a typical, traditional Mexican lunch. Frijoles and arroz, tortillas and a picante sauce, quesadillas, nopali, papas, sopa vegetal, etc. All very delicious and prepared by the Senora above and below.

The Senora had a very primitive kitchen. She had no electricity, a woodburning stove, no running water, yet she fed 12 or 15 gringos without a hitch. It was, to say the least, a very interesting day. On the van ride back into town, most of us caught a quick siesta.

Ghost Towns, Independence and Tequila Ice Cream

2011-03-17T16:32:00.014-06:00

We took a road trip yesterday to explore a couple towns generally north of San Miguel, Mineral de Pozos and Dolores Hidalgo. Pozos is more-or-less considered a ghost town of about 2,000 people today, reduced from its former status as a thriving silver city. The ratio of unoccupied to occupied buildings may be 30 to 1, or more. I commented that it is probably the "next" San Miguel and now is the time to start picking up those fixer-uppers, such as the one above (which is for sale). Doug didn't bite.

There are a couple restaurants, artisan shops or galleries, a mini-super market and vestiges of two once-splendid town plazas. An old church and this government building, both abandoned, spoke of a time when the economy was different. Our guidebook indicated that the old silver mines above the city are ideal for picnicking. But if you "go by yourself, be careful...some shafts are unguarded and easy to stumble into if you're not paying attention." We opted to eat elsewhere and more safely.

This horse was tied up outside the mini-super market on the main drag. Just as we were heading into the sunset, this caballero appeared and saddled up.

We made our way over to Dolores Hildalgo, a town famous for three important factors: birthplace of Mexican independence (el Grito); ice cream; and talavera tile. Putting history before eating or art, on September 15, 1810, Miguel Hildalgo, the local priest is said to have launched Mexico's fight for independence with the passionate call to arms "el Grito". There is a very prominent statute of him in the plaza principal, with arm raised in his cry.

As we wandered around the plaza, we noticed that every, and I don't mean just almost every, vendor cart was selling "Nieves el Rico". As best I can interpret this, it means something like "rich snow" or as we know it in the USA, ice cream. But this is no ordinary ice cream, at least some of it. The flavors they sell are unreal, bizarre, preposterous. Yes, they do have vanilla and chocolate for the timid, but who wouldn't want a tequila, shrimp or corn on the cob ice cream cone? Doug, for one.

I opted to be 50% daring: pistache on the top, elote (corn on the cob) on the bottom. Yummy and a suprisingly good combination. Doug had vanilla and chocolate, so I didn't include a photo.

While we were having our actual lunch, after dessert, these two young ladies were able to talk Doug into buying a $10 peso winning raffle ticket for some unknown prize. He had to write down specifics, including our phone number (which he had to get off of Fergus' collar), onto their clipboard, so we know it was surely on the up-and-up. Today we suddenly have four messages on the cell phone that we are unable to retrieve because we can't understand the rapid Spanish instructions, but I'm sure it is to tell us that we have won 1st prize and where to come to claim it.

I poked my head into a few talavera tile shops, but the one that looked most fascinating was behind a rickety chicken wire fence...and closed. Dust was thick. All the other stores were very glitzy with salespeople that wanted your attention the minute you walked in. I was disappointed that the rickety chicken wire place wasn't open, as it had good scrounging potential.

The cry for independence, ice cream, and talavera tile: that about sums up our toe dip into Dolores Hidalgo. I'm not sure what this woman was intently doing, but it appeared to be putting cut pieces of colored paper into a bottle???? But for what purpose? An Hidalgo mystery.

Durango to Zacatecas

2011-03-15T16:25:00.013-06:00

We'll do another bit of time-traveling, and fill in the trip between Durango to Zacatecas. The road was a relative superhighway with no Espinoza del Diablo and daylight. There were small roadside vendors set up along the way, and this gentleman's rickety stand filled with baskets attracted our attention. We bought two baskets and he proudly posed for a photo.

We started seeing prickly pear cactus growing in all sorts and forms: small shrubs, tall trees and cultivated patches covered with nets. We have subsequently learned that as a culinary crop

they are called nopali. The pads are sold either "as is" or de-spined and smoothed. In the markets in San Miguel we also saw women cutting them into narrow slices and bagging it for resale. It is used in numerous Mexican recipes and is apparently very valuable for its nutritional properties.

We arrived in Zacatecas mid-afternoon and found our hotel without too much difficulty. No, the photo above is not our hotel. However, our couple-star hotel complex did "occupy" an entire hillside, had 244 rooms, 56 apartments, who knows how many suites, a restaurant, gymnasium, beauty shop, entire road system, and only about 10 occupants total (including us). And, not one blade of grass. Zacatecas sits at about 8,000 feet elevation.

After getting settled in, and watching Mexican TV for awhile, we took a taxi to el centro for dinner at the Acropolis. Zacatecas is one of the "silver cities" in colonial Mexico, founded in 1546. The architecture, the Churrigueresque style similar to that we saw in Durango, is profoundly evident in the three-tiered facade of the cathedral.

Apostles, angels, flowers and fruit adorn the pillars, pedastals, columns and niches in a rather exuberant excess---that's from our guidebook. It was almost like a "Where's Waldo" looking at it, to my untrained eye.

The cathedral was constructed between 1730 and 1775. We did not go inside the cathedral, but our guidebook indicates that the exterior contrasts with the interior in that all of the treasures were lost during the turmoils in Mexico, the Reforma and the later Revolution.

I am assuming that the grandiose architecture in Zacatecas must be representative of a lifestyle that was present at one time during the age of silver. The number of remarkable Baroque limestone buildings speak for themselves.

We Stumble Upon a Charreada

2011-03-15T14:24:00.003-06:00

On Sunday we set out in the morning for a visit the the Toltec Pyramids that are near San Miguel. We got there after getting lost and when we arrived at noon, the pyramids were swamped with local Mexican families on their day off. We decided to head back to town and make another stab at on another day. Lo and behold, just as we got back to San Miguel, we stumbled upon a Charrreada just as it was ready to kick off at 1:00 pm. It was as if it was meant to be, that we weren't supposed to go to the pyramids that day. If you really want to know more, look it up on wikipeda, otherwise, you'll have to just take a gringo's word on what happened. It's not really a rodeo, but the predecessor to a rodeo, more like an exhibition of the talents of charros, or Mexican cowboys, the ancestors of the North American cowboy.

Half of the pictures and videos are by Nancy and the other half are by me.

This "chica" was dressed to the nines for the event. Here she's just gotten her parents to buy her some churros (I think) upon which the vendor squeezes a lime and some hot sauce.

The charros kept riding over to the edge of the ring where their families sat, and they would be handed a new rope or tossed a bottle of water. Sometimes the charros would climb off the horse into the stands to deal with the situation themselves, and then jump back on the horse.

It was a total family affair, someone's "Abuela" or Grandmama was there. What an amazing profile.

In one event the charros would perform a stunt similar to what we in the states call bulldogging. This would not entail leaving their horse however, but the charros would grab the bull by the tail and then use their boot to topple the critter. You can see videos of the event below. Watch for the charro examining his hand after it has picked up who knows what from the bull. The interesting thing, however, was after the bull had been dispatched, they would ride hell-bent-for-leather for the opposite side of the ring, and reign in the "caballo" only to stop inches from the concrete wall. See the videos, which, for some reason did not capture the actual suspense of the activity.

A detail of the opening ceremonies, the salute.

Now, here are the videos. There is a bull riding event which then morphs into an event where three charros take down the same bull with lassos, head and find feet. It was pretty boring compared to the team roping event we know in the states, and not as not as exciting as riding a brahma, either. You can click on the bulldogging event which is so different that the gringo version, and see the quickstop ending. Let's see, there's the event where the horse turns on a dime, or a peso, which is rather interesting. And the event where the purpose appears to be - how fast can you stop a horse going full speed. And there is one of the opening ceremony, where the charros divide into four groups and ride into the ring. Enjoy the videos and remember to enlarge the pictures with a click.

www.wikipedia.org/wiki/charreada

Durango and Dolores del Rio

2011-03-14T17:11:00.019-06:00

After our very brief foray into and through Mazatlan, we broke the golden rule of driving in Mexico: DO NOT DRIVE AT NIGHT. We headed for Durango, over a mountain road that defies logic in the USA. Twists, turns, lots of 18-wheeler truck traffic, no shoulders, no lines, narrower than any we'd ever been on, steep drop-off, but drop-dead gorgeous views (the little that we saw). Sorry, no photos. The road crosses the Espinazo del Diablo, the Devil's Backbone, and there were times I wish we had a car with even a shorter wheelbase. A few times an 18-wheeler rounded a curva peligroso (dangerous curve, as if a sign was needed) well out into the on-coming lane, and the approaching car had to back up to give clearance. The most amazing part was when we would come up behind an 18-wheeler chugging up a hill at a snail's pace, the driver would put on their left turn signal to indicate it was OK for us to pass. Yeah, right, like they could see around the curva peligroso dead ahead. It was one of those "had to check your shorts" drives...and I was only the passenger.

Once we arrived in Durango, several hours past our anticipated ETA, our vague map had us driving in circles. We kept narrowing it down, but realized that several streets surrounding the Hotel Don Miguel were blocked off and Policia were standing guard. I took my reservation sheet up to one group of policia and asked them "donde esta Hotel San Miguel?" Between gestures and a few words, a female officer asked where we were parked. She accompanied me to our car, and indicated that she would personally escort us through the barricades to the hotel. I crawled in the back with Ferg, she in the front and off we went. I kept hearing izquierda, derecha, again and again to tell Doug to turn left and right. Then, miraculously, we were there. I, of all people, was ready to praise the saints! She may have been one of the corrupt policia we always read about in Mexico, but at that moment I was singing her praise.

For a city that doesn't even get a mention in Fodor's and only a few paragraphs in other travel guides, we found Durango Mexico a charming colonial place that has been neither discovered nor abused by gringos.

Durango seems to have two claims to fame: Hollywood in Mexico and Dolores del Rio. Many Western movies starring John Wayne, Kirk Douglas, Anthony Quinn and Jack Nicholson were filmed in the area. Dolores del Rio, star of both Mexican and Hollywood cinema, was born in Durango. The sign confirms her great beauty, claiming something to the effect that in the history of photography, the two great beauties were Dolores del Rio and Greta Garbo.

The downtown or "centro" area is studded with high-end shops, restaurants, and a pedestrian street. Brightly colored facades on a crisp clear morning were very welcoming after the harrowing drive from Mazatlan, and we never strayed far from the hotel that day.

The only written English I saw in Durango was the plaque across from their famous Catedral. Read the story of Beatrice the Moon Nun, and you can decide for yourselves whether you believe it or not. Since we weren't there during a full moon, I can't confirm. But it is one of those stories that a veteran guide loves to be able to tell her group just when everybody is starting to fall asleep on the bus.

Beatrice the Moon Nun chose a fine church. It's architecture exemplifies the Churrigueresque style, which is characterized by "dazzling surface ornament that conveys flowing movement and obscures the form beneath." Thanks to the DK Eyewitness Travel series for that explanation. We concluded it was pink sandstone.

House #89, not particularly important, just a strikingly beautiful, though well eroded entryway, I thought.

Mexico's history is quite convoluted. The first uprising (unsuccessful) was in 1810 with the famous call to arms El Grito (The Cry); another four years later led by Jose Maria Morelos, also unsuccessful. Independence from Spain was finally achieved in 1821, but Mexico suffered quite a shady series of presidents until the Reforma in 1857. The Mexican Revolution was launched in 1910, and in 1917 the revolutionary constitution was passed. This woodcut, which was approximately 15' X 10', depicts several of these historic events as noted on the plaques in some of the angels hands.

We wandered into the Mercado Gomez Palacio, a huge, enormous, covered market. We took Fergus with us, which was a scary proposition for both him and everyone he encountered. The aisles were barely wide enough to squeeze through, it was noisy, there was absolutely no organization, rows of stalls veered off in all directions like spokes on a bicycle, and merchandise was displayed from floor to ceiling (12' tall). This shoe and boot repair individual must have been rather religious, based upon the posters hanging on the back wall.

The woman was furiously stirring some sort of seed or bean in a galvanized pan over a burner. I have no clue what the end product was to be.

There were lots of kids hanging out with family members, some even riding bicycles or tricycles through the maze of aisles in the market---little Tour de France competitors in the making.

Karla was very proud of her kitchen. I love the bowls in the foreground. Around the corner was the counter where she served all her patrons.

I don't think there was anything you couldn't buy at this market. The big problem was finding it. Leather chaps hung on display for Mexican caballeros. These things were thick.

We ended our evening with a nightcap at the Belmont Bar. We were definitely the only gringos in there. The wall behind the bar was plastered with photos of Hollywood movie stars and other famous folks. There's even a huge photos of the Beatles. Not sure if the Beatles ever played the Belmont Bar, but I doubt it.

At one point in the Belmont, four strumming musicians entered and started playing a little. They sounded real good and we wanted them to continue. Doug went up to the bartender, asked him to turn off the radio, paid to buy each of the band a drink and asked them to play. The radio was turned off, they drank their drink, but they never played. We finally left. But we did get to sit under a great photo of Dolores del Rio (on the left).

First Days in San Miguel de Allende

2011-03-12T07:45:00.007-07:00

I was constantly forced to remind myself, while walking around San Miguel de Allende, that I was in Mexico, not Spain. It's a very charming city with it's bold colors and balconies a part of every second story window. All the streets are cobblestone and the narrow sidewalks are mostly occupied by telephone poles, it's just as easy to walk in the street except for the traffic crawling by. The city is perched on the base of a hill in a rather broad valley. It is at an elevation of 6500 feet, and the hills leave you gasping for breath. (Please click on the pictures to enlarge them.)

This lady was flattered to have me ask to take her picture. She spent some time adjusting her scarf on her head before smiling up at me. I think her strongly indigenous face and the woven goods behind her remind us that while the architecture may be Spanish Colonial, the people are Mexican. We had heard that there was a large gringo and foreign population in San Miguel; that may be true but it is still overwhelmingly indigenous.

The sidewalk cafes under couverts remind one of the main plaza of Mirepoix (yes, France) n'est pas?

The colonial Spanish who settled San Miguel seemed to have two main goals; convert the Indians to Catholicism, and remove all the gold to Spain. Consequently, churches in San Miguel are everywhere. In the historical downtown, there are no less that five magnificent churches. The gold went to Madrid.

I'm not sure if this traditional dress is worn when they are not selling their goods, but nonetheless, it is very appealing. Native dress, sandals on bare feet and a plastic coke bottle. I am reminded of the traditional house dress worn by French women around Leran. The Mexican women have something similar, but it is a smock worn over other clothes.

We stumbled upon this old gas pump, and I can remember these at gas stations when I was a kid, although the were brightly painted with the oil companies logo. Perhaps you can see that the guage is offering gas at 38 centavos per litre. My mind can't convert liters to gallons and old pesos to dollars, but that was probably a screamin' deal.

Another reminder of Mirepoix, France. There always seems to be a guy caning chairs in the Monday morning market. This guy wasn't at a market but just sitting out on the street plying his trade.

This lady is multi-tasking. Carrying out the garbage and taking her items to the artisan's market.

We stumbled upon a celebration of Cuban culture and dance. This grandmother was watching her grandchild and the dancing troupe at the same time.

I generally ask if they mind if I take a picture, but not always. I asked this street vendor preparing her lunch items, "Un photo, con permisso, por favor?" She stuck out her hand, palm up. No misunderstanding that gesture.

A Few Thoughts About Todos Santos

2011-03-10T14:57:00.014-07:00

This was our home in Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, for two weeks. It's a lovely home with a goregeous view and plenty of decks to soak up the sun. We traded houses with a California couple who will venture to Leran in September. We had a relaxing time and spent hours and hours on the beautiful, sandy and lonely beaches of Baja.

Todos Santos translates to English as All Saints. Crowning the doorways and corners of many of the older buildings in "downtown" Todos Santos are statues of quite a few of them. Whether their job is to oversee what's happening or provide guidance to town parishoners, or just enhance photographic interest for tourists, I don't know. One Sunday, we signed up for an Historical House Tour, and our guide Christine took us through some 22 grand old restored buildings. One person in the group, when repeatedly seeing the statues overhead, asked just how many saints there were. Christine had to admit she didn't know. Neither did I except to say "a shit-load". I later confirmed my suspicion: more than 10,000.

Everywhere we went in Todos Santos, there were lots of visitors from South Dakota. We saw lots of California license plates and Baja Sur of course. A few Montana, Colorado, and other western states, but an overwheming number of South Dakotans seemed to be spending the winter in Todos Santos. The mystery resolved itself when we found out South Dakota will send you a set of plates without having to establish residency or even make an appearance in the state, hence a lot of American ex-pats have them throughtout Mexico.

One of the empty and beautiful beaches where we would walk Fergus every day. This one is San Perdito, also known as Las Palmas. Only once or twice did we see people on this beach in the afternoon.

I loved the two guys standing outside the white adobe or stucco building with the incredible olive green trim. The contrast was striking.

The Freida Khalo chair. The sports bar was in a building that was intentionally left only partially restored. The walls in one of the back rooms were in the original lime plaster, badly damaged with huge chunks of exposed brick showing. The owners commented that it retained its charm this way. So right. All the chairs were brightly painted, but Freida was the only one I recognized. There may have been Pancho Villa and Diego Rivera too.

Construction materials for the old buildings included a local brick, which dimensionally was about 50% bigger than our standard US brick. It was most handsome. Wrought iron balconies graced the 2nd floors of most buildings, and no buildings were taller than two stories. Wooden doors were painted in stunning flat colors, shades of blues, greens, lavenders, reds. No one could tell me the specific paint used, but it had the effect of a milk paint.

Outside the Cafe de Todos Santos, hidden under the cascading flowers, are Doug and Fergus. We sat there feeling like we were in a cocoon, and assumed that even on the hottest day, this arbor would provide a welcoming sanctuary.

Most of the beaches we discovered were non-swimming beaches with steep drop-offs and strong undertows. Fergus seemed to instinctively learn to keep a safe distance as the waves came crashing in. But once we found Los Cerritos, with a shallow hard-packed swimming beach, Fergus was nearly convinced to become a water dog. I say, nearly. He would venture out with us, then see a wave coming in and hustle himself back to dry sand. But he did get in (sort of) on a game a canine soccer.

To sum up, Todos Santos for us was all about relaxation. I know, most of you are thinking, isn't that what they already do? Yes, but not at a beach. In 80 degrees in February.

The other part of Todos Santos for us was catching a little sun. Until, if you can believe this, we actually started staying out of the sun and seeking the shade. We wore sun glasses and hats everywhere. On Saturday, we finally had to break the news to Ferg that we were packing up and moving on. One last beach, one last crab fight, and we left for LaPaz for the return ferry to the mainland and San Miguel de Allende.

Short Stop in Mazatlan

2011-03-07T10:12:00.003-07:00

We arrived in the hell-hole that Mazatlan has become, about 2:00 pm after a drive from Los Mochis. After a few false starts, including a google map that showed our hotel in the wrong place, we found Hotel San Diego and tried to check in. Despite e-mails showing we were welcome to bring a dog, they were not happy with Fergus. He was too big and too dangerous. Nancy looked at the room and it was dirty and dingy. We had no reason to stay in Mazatlan other than it was halfway to Durango.

It was "carnival" and Mazatlan was humming with activity, and Nancy speculated that we'd have a difficult time finding a place that would take a dog on the eve of "carnival". Mazatlan has road construction with no detours, no barracades, people ignore stop signs, and the poverty, if you get off the Malecon, is depressing. Beggars and con artists clog the intersections. We watched a blind guy and his helper beg at a busy intersection. The blind guy was the one out in traffic. It can't be particularly safe choice, to say the least.

(Incidentally, it is a strange experience to walk the streets of Mexico with Fergus. About every other person reacts with horror when they see him. They give him a wide berth on the sidewalk, and keep their clearly terrified eyes on him as much as possible. On the ferry, the staff was obviously worried that Fergus would tear some limbs off some of the passengers unless lots of distance was kept between he and his victims. In the U.S., and in France that reaction is pretty much absent. All I can say is that Mexicans must have had some pretty bad experiences with dogs, and perhaps it is understandable; there are lots of strays running loose because there are no spay and neuter clinics nor humane societies. Yet lots of dogs are chained in yards for protection.)

So, since Mazatlan was such a horror, we decided to move on to Durango, up in the mountains. What we have found is a delightful, colonial city that sits on the old Camino Real connecting Mexico City with it's once far flung outpost, Santa Fe, in Neuvo Mexico. And it's beautiful. We'll post pictures after we mosey around.

On The Road Again

2011-03-06T07:20:00.003-07:00

We're on the road today from Los Mochis to Mazatlan. There is lots to tell but so little internet time in which to do it. When we get to San Miguel de Allende we'll be able to catch you up with our thoughts of Mexico. One thing I can say, is put your fears of a violent Mexico to rest. That is a fiction created by the U.S. media for what purpose I cannot say. Mexico is about as violent as the neighborhood where you live. Adios for now, amigos.

From Nogales to Todos Santos, Baja

2011-02-24T17:28:00.012-07:00

Todos Santos, Baja is all about relaxation. At least from our point of view. We are, however, the first ones at the beach each morning, thanks to the pleadings of Fergus. We have more than several beaches to choose from, depending upon whether we want to watch surfers, walk on hard or soft sand, watch whales, or have an almost story-tale entrance through a pathway of palm trees. While we don't have internet connection at our trade house, we are nearly locals at La Esqina, a down-the-road coffee-internet-sandwich-wine-everything oasis place. Right now we're just posting some photos before we head off for dinner. More thoughtful commentary later.

Europe on $5 a Day, Yeah Sure

2011-02-04T12:17:00.026-07:00

My "journal' records that I found the countryside between Lisbon and Barcelona very beautiful, meaning.....we caught a day train. I compare the scenery of Spain to that of Colorado, high praise indeed from me. We had hoped to get to see a bullfight in Barcelona but, alas, it rained and the bull fight was cancelled. To this day, I've not seen a bullfight. I remember being very impressed with Barcelona, even though Frommer's 1972 book Europe on $5 a Day seemed to be a little bit underwhelmed with the city. Since we couldn't see a bullfight we did the next best thing and wandered over to this unfinished cathedral called La Familia Sagrada. Of course it is known around the world today as Antoni Gaudi's masterpiece of architecture. It's a UNESCO world heritage site and one of the top tourist attractions in Europe. We, of course, had never heard of it before and I don't think many other Americans had either.

I write about the visit in my "journal" but save most of my words for our single evening in the section of town near the train station. We had found a hotel, one with a shower, although it wasn't in the room, I note. In my journal I remark, "Scott calls it a dungeon. The shower spray merely creates a fog - no water." I remember that shower to this day. The shower head was about eleven feet above my head, and with the water turned on full force misted individual atoms of water that clung to hair on my arms but left my arms themselves dry. By the time the fog reached the bather, it was cold as ice.

I remember broad boulevards with trees shading the wide sidewalks, and it seemed at the time that this had to be one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, and one that was totally undiscovered. Even when we were at la Familia Sagrada, the place seemed to lack tourists. I'm sure this is not the case today.

As dusk fell we wandered out to find some food and wine. We came upon a type of establishment that you may have seen from time to time in Europe but I'd never seen before. In a window we saw a rotisserie grill with a dozen or more chickens slowly roasting away. The aroma was intoxicating and we were immediately hungry. We latched on to a chicken and had a great, almost free dinner sitting at the counter inside. As we were eating, I was propositioned. I was approached by what I called a "middle-aged cutie" who asked only 150 pesetas, a price that I noted "was cheap". Not a bargain, but cheap. I don't know what a peseta was worth in 1972, but I can tell you we went across the street to a wine shop and got a litro of white wine for 14 pesetas, a price I valued at 21 cents. Meaning, if my arithmetic is correct, the lady was offering herself to me for around $2.25. What a delightful city!

The wine shop into which we wandered also deserves some mention because I've never seen anything like it ever again. We wandered into this musty place that had along one deep stone wall, about 30 wooden barrels of wine stacked on top of each other, cobwebs in great abundance. Each barrel had a wooden spigot and the proprietor would pull a glass or a litro of wine of your choice, literally for pennies. There were maybe two or three little tables with a few chairs each. A couple of old Spanish guys in black berets sat there nursing their wine. It was absolutely everything I had imagined back home in Colorado when I dreamed of a trip to Europe. We even had a little conversation in my minuscule Spanish. There is no doubt, we should have stayed for a week or a month, not just an evening. This little neighborhood had everything....women, wine and food. And all of them cheap. Unfortunately, the Eurail Pass was calling us to the train, and after sampling only the food and wine, we left Barcelona the next morning.

From beautiful, seductive Barcelona, we took train along the Mediterranean coast to the city of Nice, France. The Riviera, the French Riviera, the Cote d'Azur, Saint Tropez, Antibes, the most famous coastline in the world. I mention in my journal that on the train ride I caught sight of the Pyrenees, and "they looked pretty big". One of the major complaints I had when I arrived back home was the mode of travel. While trains are a wonderful way to get around, they leave something to be desired. You can travel from the center of one city to the center of another, read, sleep and converse in style and comfort. You can travel along through the Pyrenees, see the Costa Brava and the Rivera through the window, but unlike a car, you can't stop and get out wherever you want. Perhaps, you can get off the train in some small village, but unless you brought your bike with you, you're on foot. I was at this point in the trip, having seen the awesome Pyrenees outside the window, frustrated by going from one metropolis to another metropolis, without experiencing what was in between.

We stayed in Nice in the Hotel Normandie in double room that cost us $6.00. Just for the hell of it I googoled the place and you can see it pictured below. A double room this spring would cost $78. This is the only place in my journal that I give the name of the hotel and the price we paid so this is the only time I can make this comparison.

We took the bus along the coast to Monaco to see the Palace and watch the changing of the Palace Guard. It's quite a spectacle, as you can see in the picture below. We were astounded by the number of tourists who also were on hand to gawk at the sight. We also wandered around the streets, I don't mention whether in Nice or Monaco, but we stumbled upon an open air market, the first I'd ever seen, "which had everything - vegetables, meat, clothes, kitchen utensils, and fruit". We went to a waterfront dive for couscous in the North African style. In this case it didn't mean the just pasta, but the dish with lamb or seafood and peppers and couscous. I mention that we got thrown out of the casino for lack of proper attire. By thrown out, I mean we were asked to leave by a man in a tuxedo. We were still frustrated by the amount of money we were spending. I note that I'd cashed a ten dollar traveller's cheque in the morning and spent the entire amount before we even paid the hotel bill. Imagine! Ten dollars in one day! We should have stayed in Barcelona.

Mais, oui, Monaco est tres belle. But obviously we could not afford it. It was too rich for our blood. And I know at this point we were looking at our stash and wondering how long we could stay.

We took a bus the Maeght Foundation, this strange and wonderful museum and saw modern art. Matisse, Giacometti, Miro, Calder, Kandinsky, Picasso, they were all there. Some people have a little trouble appreciating modern art and make jokes about how long it would take a monkey to come up with the same quality of work, but we came away impressed. We had a good but expensive time in Southern France. But our Eurail Pass kept us on the move, and to avoid spending precious dollars on accommodations, we caught the night train to Rome.

Rome was to say the least, confusing. I can remember getting on a trolley car one evening trying to get to the Trevi Fountain after dinner. The information listed this trolley as going to the fountain so we hopped on. The conductor argued and he wouldn't take our money or let us sit down. Did it go the the Trevi Fountain? Si, si, signore. He was reluctant to let us ride but we were determined to take the trolley. He finally relented, we paid full fare, we sat down, the conductor sighed. The trolley went one block, switched onto a siding and went out of service for the night. The conductor shooed us off the trolley car, smiled and locked the doors as we walked off toward the fountain.

Rome was the oldest city either of us had ever been to, and while breathtakingly beautiful, we were not appreciating anything; we were probably showing signs of travel fatigue and homesickness. I remember almost everything in Rome began to piss me off. Wandering down old, ancient streets we noticed the walls about to crumble. Flying buttresses were constructed out of telephone poles to hold up walls. And the pole buttresses blocked off the streets, which were dirty and strewn with garbage. It wasn't charming, it was depressing.

Scott, being a good Irish boy, wanted to see the Vatican and so we ventured forth on April 14, 1972. We saw La Pieta, which is absolutely marvelous. You can't help looking at the marble and wondering how anyone could take cold stone, a chisel and a hammer and make folds of cloth look so soft and pliable. We climbed up into the cupola for a fantastic view. A view of what, I can't remember and my journal doesn't say. Was it a view of the interior of the Vatican or a view of the city of Rome? Or both? Does anyone know?

A little over a month later on May 21, a disturbed Lazlo Toth took a hammer to the foot and other sections of the sculpture. Pieces flew off and were snatched up as souvenirs, including Mary's nose. It had to be reconstructed from pieces of marble from the back of the sculpture. And now there is a fence around Michelangelo's masterpiece and you can't be as close as you would like.

We'd barely scratched the surface of things to see in Rome, but daylight was burnin', time was wastin' and our Eurail Pass was scorching our wallets. We packed up after two days in Rome and headed for Vienna where I had an old girlfriend and an even older cousin.

To Be Continued

Europe on $5 a Day

2011-02-02T09:22:00.011-07:00

As I look through my old passport, I see that I arrived in Luxembourg, on the 22nd of March in 1972. It was a trip that had been in the planning stages for about a year and a half. My good friend Scott and I were taking a class in European History, and at about that time we decided it would be fun to make a trip to the continent when we were done with college. We had each bought our own copy of "Europe on $5 a Day" and we perused through it, imagining all the great places to go, the beautiful women we would meet, the wonderful cafes and bars, and in my case the incomparable art museums. I was an Art major, you see, and I was excited to see some of these great paintings and artworks in person, that I had seen so many times in art books.

In any case, we decided upon a plan to leave for Europe in the spring of 1972, before the prices went up for the summer. I found the stubs for the American Express traveller's cheques that I bought, and apparently I took about $750. I had remembered the figure as $1000, but there is nothing to substantiate it. I cashed the first $10 checks in Denver, Topeka, and Elkton, Indiana, blown on gas and food on our drive to New York, our jumping off point. Scott and I had spent the fall and winter working and saving money for our trip, Scott as a door to door Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman, and I, as a office furniture delivery driver.

I took my traveller's cheques, a three week Eurail Pass for which I'd paid about $125, and a few clothes stuffed into a red nylon backpack. My mother had told us that European boys and men didn't wear blue jeans so we didn't take any. However, my mother was wrong. Of course we found they were worth their weight in gold, or French Francs, anyway.

We flew on Icelandic Airways and the flight included a two or three hour layover in Reykjavik at the airport, in the middle of the night. I can always honestly report that I've been to Iceland, but all I ever saw there were airplanes on the tarmac.

I can vaguely remember many things about the trip, but as I look through my "journal" those memories are not present. My "journal" is, at best adolescent, and at worst childish. Here's my summation of our time in Luxembourg. "Scott and I walked around Luxembourg - over and under a fantastic bridge - found a cheap hotel, had dinner at the train station, barbecued chicken, got drunk and went to bed." Sounds just like Robert Louis Stevenson, doesn't it? (I think that's the bridge, pictured below.) As I peruse through my journal, I find the words "Got drunk and went to bed" fairly frequently.

We hitchhiked out of Luxembourg the next morning heading for Paris and points beyond. Scott and I looked relatively clean cut and no one could possibly mistake us for hippies and dope addicts, so we had a pretty easy time getting rides. Then, across the border, somewhere near Spincourt, France, we were joined by an English lad by the name of Peter. He was very exotic, wore a long black wool overcoat and had long shaggy, curly hair and a scraggly beard. Peter's overcoat had numerous pockets inside and out and he kept bringing forth emergency rations, maps, pencils and even a flask. Because we were now three, and he looked like shit, we never got another ride. My journal says we walked 10 km to Verdun where we bought bread, cheese and wine, and caught the train to Paris. In our hurry, we bypassed the cemetery full of American soldiers killed during WWI. I would have loved to visit the cemetery and see the battlefield, but we were on foot, new to this travel business and didn't speak a word of French and had no idea how to find a tour. This was not the first interesting place we'd ignore; we were more inclined to see the inside of bars and cafes than a battlefield. But, someday, I'll see Verdun.

We arrived in Paris long after dark and the three of us took the first hotel that had a room. We thought it an anomaly, but the prices quoted us were much higher that the prices listed in our Frommer's "Europe of $5 a Day" guidebook. Definitely a precursor of things to come. However expensive it seemed to us then, now it seems cheap. We paid $3.00 each for our room and I complained about it in my "journal".

In the morning we ditched Peter and found a room at the Hotel St. Germain des Pres, where my sister and her husband had stayed several months before. I call it expensive in my "journal" but unfortunately I don't mention the price. We had a fine lunch at the Restaurant de Beaux Artes. My "journal" reports we had a brush with culture shock. "The menu might as well have been in Russian for all we could make out. We took a stab and got veal and it was 'delisioso'. After a few carafes of wine, Scott found he could suddenly read the menu like it was printed in Coloradoan. Anyway, it was a terrific scare to be stood over by the waitress, stuttering and pointing and hoping it's not raw crawdaddys."

We visited the Jeu de Paume, the Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, and I guess that's all the industrial tourism we managed to do. I rave about the artwork in the museum, Degas, Manet, Monet, Sisley, Van Gogh and Lautrec are mentioned by name. I report encountering a lot of "crooks"; one had the nerve to charge us five and a half Francs for two cups of coffee.

We got drunk, of course, with some young French guys. "One spoke English and the other could mumble in two languages." Just like an American, I guess, complaining about the natives not speaking our language with any fluency.

We took the night train to Madrid which saved us from spending money on a hotel or pension. We loaded up with food, wine, and water. I remember the quality of the trains went to hell as we crossed the border into Spain. I write about the numerous stops in every Spanish village, the age of the train cars, and the fragrant odor of our Spanish travelling companions. My "journal" doesn't mention this but I remember an hombre removing his shoes and socks and we immediately began fighting for the seats next to the window.

We spent several days in Madrid, mostly killing time until we were to meet up with Scott's dad in Estoril, Portugal. We paid $3.00 for a room, which must have been agreeable, since there is no word of complaint in my journal. We went to the Prado and saw "Velasquez, Tintoretto and Reubens, a Rembrandt". We ran into some girls we met on the airplane, Chris and Mary from Minneapolis, and naturally, got drunk with them.

My main memory of Spain, apart from the Flamenco dancers, is that we were in a country led by the dictator, Franco. He of the Spanish Civil War, buddies with Hitler and Mussolini. A living dinosaur, really, a man from a different age. He died about three years later in 1975, and as I recall, the monarchy resumed.

We were beginning to understand that Arthur Frommer's estimate of $5 per day was hopelessly optimistic. The only way we could stay below a five dollar limit was to spend nothing in the bars and cafes. We were two 24 year old single guys and we would have given up almost anything before we'd give up our evenings in the bars. And if you're in the bars, you're gonna drink.

Again we took the night train, and we arrived in Lisbon, Portugal. We took the train to Estoril which was a rather ritzy resort town, at least by our standards. After we found a room in a private house for a few days at 60 escudo per night, about @$2.50 American, we went to the beach and got some sun. That evening the Portuguese folks invited us to watch TV with them. The western "had Spencer Tracy, Richard Widmark and Hugh O'Brian and others with Portuguese subtitles. Conversation was in broken Spanish about color TV and the beach. Robert Wagner got the girl." Through the magic of the internet, I can surmise we were watching Broken Lance, from 1954. After the movie we went out and got drunk.

We found Scott's dad. He bought us breakfast, lunch and dinner and took us to the Pena Palace near Sintra in a limousine. It was the first castle I'd ever been to, and fascinating, but sadly the tour was in Portuguese so we missed a lot, as you might imagine. The next day April 10, we caught a train to Barcelona. We used our Eurail Pass for the first time, meaning we were now on the clock. The pass expired three weeks from the first usage. This was good and bad. We travelled cheaply, and on better trains, but we had this horrible anxiety, feeling as if we were wasting money anytime we were not actually on the train. For the next three weeks we were ramblin' guys, sleeping and eating on the train, moving like fugitives from justice. Barcelona, Nice, Rome, Florence, Vienna and Amsterdam went by in a flash.

To Be Continued

Dog Sled Races on Grand Mesa

2011-01-29T15:12:00.005-07:00

Just east of Grand Junction, and not too far from Montrose is the Grand Mesa, a flat top mountain that has an elevation of around 10,000 feet. Today on top of Grand Mesa, in about four feet of snow under a clear blue winter sky, a whole bunch of dogs and a whole lot more people got together for sled dog races. Unlike what you might expect from movies and TV, the sleds are small and lightweight, and just big enough to carry one person. Another aspect of sled dog racing that surprises neophytes like me are the breeds of dogs that are pulling the sleds. Most breeds were represented except Chihuahuas and French poodles. And the huskies that were pulling sleds were much smaller and leaner than I imagined.

Ski-joring is an event that I remember seeing on the main street of Steamboat Springs, Colorado, with cowboys on horses pulling skiers and the skiers spear rings while zooming down the course. This is the first I've seen using dogs. It was a two dog, one skier competition but I overheard this skier tell someone that his other dog had just died. So he went with one dog only.

Below, is the start of the four dog sled competition and as you can hear the dogs are loaded with energy, yelping and anxious to start.

Dogs are carted around in trailers or pick-ups with cages on the back. These poor guys were feeling lonely and neglected and letting their feelings be known to all the world. And of course you can hear me egging them on.

Here's the finish line as one four dog sled completes the course.

Oh Woe! Tickets Bought, Plans Made, Visitors Scheduled

2011-01-29T08:44:00.004-07:00

Nancy spent a lot of the last month on the inter-tubes buying airline tickets to Toulouse, as well as arranging accommodations for when we have to vacate our house in Leran, and also making arrangements for our Mexican trip such as ferry rides and overnight accommodations. I can barely remember how it was done before the internet? As I recall, there were two ways we dealt with it. One was the travel agent, a phenomenon that seems to be disappearing into oblivion now, almost as rare as a dial telephone. And two, we would just wing it. Instead of doing research and making reservations on the internet.....we'd just show up at the ticket counter of the ferry boat, bus terminal, train station or hotel and haul out the traveller's cheques (another travel staple that has all but disappeared).

As soon as those travel arrangements were made, we could tell our family and other potential guests when they could come visit. As of today, we are very excited to have my youngest sister Amy and her family arriving in July, sandwiched in between two trips we'll make to Spain. The two trips to Spain are necessitated by our house trades that we made for Mexico. The first trip is to the southern coast near Granada and the second is a brief visit to Barcelona.

We should arrive in Leran on May 17 and go home on August 17, using up the 90 days the French government allows U.S. nationals to visit their country. We tossed around the idea of staying in France for four or five months. However, to be legal, we'd have to get an extended stay visa ($150 each) by making a personal appearance at the French Consulate in Los Angeles, and then once in France, informing the proper authorities and then getting a medical examination, a complete physical to the tune of 300 Euro each. Coupled with the expense of the trip to LA, we decided to forgo additional time in France.

While in the midst of the confusion and turmoil of all these plans, we made a very sad error. We made our airline reservations through British Airways, and we learned too late they do not transport dogs in June, July and August through the Denver airport due to the danger of high heat in the cargo space. Sadly, that meant Fergus would have to stay home this summer. Nancy and I are very worked up at the thought of the three month separation. But, he'll stay with sister Amy (and with sister Peggy while Amy travels) and he couldn't be in better hands. He'll be well taken care of but we'll miss him, and if you have animals, you know how we will be suffering.

Southbound and Down

2011-01-16T09:17:00.012-07:00

Nancy and I are anxiously awaiting the beginning of our Mexican excursion which begins about a month from now. We visited Peurto Vallarta last winter; we traded the Leran house for a condo overlooking the Bay of Banderas. We flew down for two weeks, and it only whetted our appetites to see more of Mexico. This winter we'll be driving down from Colorado spending about six weeks south of the border. Our first port of call will be Todos Santos, pictured above. Todos Santos is close to the southern end of the Baja Peninsula, on the Pacific side sort of half way between La Paz and Cabo San Lucas. Todos Santo is called an artist's community, whatever that means. Reports claim that there are two paved streets and a single stop light that works occasionally. We'll see. One thing's for sure, it looks like there are miles and miles of beaches.

We'll take the ferry from Los Mochis to La Paz and back to the mainland two weeks later. It will be our first time on the Baja Peninsula (except for a brief excursion across the border to Ensenada more that 25 years ago). We have some hopes that we can do some whale watching because it will be calving season and an excellent time to see the cows and calves.

We'll travel from Los Mochis to Mazatlan, over the Sierra Madre to Durango, then to Aguascalientes, Zacatecas and then San Miguel de Allende, taking about three days to make the rather leisurely drive. At San Miguel, we have another house trade lined up for another two weeks.

San Miguel is a colonial town that has become somewhat of an international community with many ex-pats from up north and Europe as well. It has been called one of the most pleasant and beautiful cities in Mexico. So stay tuned.....we'll be reporting in as we have time and Internet access.

Reflections on a Trip to New Mexico

2010-12-29T10:08:00.011-07:00

I've lived in a few Western states: Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Washington. Those states have bullet holes in the roadsigns as well. But nowhere do they blow holes in their roadsigns with more enthusiasm than they do in New Mexico. In fact as you are driving around, it tends to give you the 'willies' when you think it would be possible for a bullet to come through your windshield. I imagine the wood behind the sign (above) stops the bullet, but the simple metal speed limit signs don't even slow them down.

This door opens into the courtyard of the Palace of the Governor's in downtown Santa Fe and is easily eight feet tall. It must have been difficult to open because they made a little four foot high door for easier access for a human or two. Open the doors all the way and you could bring in a horse drawn wagon loaded with casks of wine or a load of hay. The beautiful shade of blue reminds me of old doors I've seen in Mirepoix.

They turn out all the lights on Canyon Drive on Christmas Eve and it is impossibly crowded with people making it hard to navigate, especially with a black dog that becomes almost invisible. But Fergus got some real love and affection when they finally did see him. One street over, the crowds diminish and you can actually see the traditional luminarios or farrilitos. For those who have never seen this wonderful form of Christmas lights, they are ordinary brown paper bags filled with a little sand and a candle. They line the top of walls, sidewalks and any other places you can imagine. They also make another similar arrangement, like a small kite or hot air balloon, and with the heat of a single candle rise into the night sky until they catch fire and send sparks and ashes cascading towards the ground. I've often wondered how many house fires and forest fires these start, but perhaps none, because they've been doing it for years.

This is the plaza in downtown Santa Fe. In the center is an obelisk commemorating soldiers who fought or died in the early days of Anglo New Mexico. (Again, you can see the luminarios set up for the evening.)

This is on one side of the obelisk, and on another side is a commemoration to the solders who fought in the Civil War at Glorieta Pass. As you can see, someone at some point has taken umbrage, rightly so, and taken it in their own hands to remove a reference to "savage" Indians. (I should clarify that I think it is right to be offended by the term 'savage' and possibly 'Indians', but I think it is incorrect to vandalize the monument.) I am also wondering, was the first line also changed at some point? And if so, what did it say?

This plaque sits nearby, and I don't know when it was placed......before or after the vandalism of the obelisk. Interestingly, in Colorado at the present time, there is an ongoing debate whether to rename a mountain from Kit Carson Peak to another more culturally sensitive name. Kit Carson, a famous frontier figure and Santa Fe resident was married to a Ute woman, as I recall, but also killed a large number of Native Americans and some don't want to honor him with the name of a mountain. The debate goes on. Should we rename Cortez, Colorado or Columbus, Ohio and Montana so as not to honor these historical figures for their murderous exploits? How about Squaw Flat Campground; the Montrose High Indians? For right now, I'll stay neutral.

On Christmas Day this lady was having fun giving out free hugs to anyone who wanted one. I'll leave you with a few videos of musicians in the plaza sending out Christmas Cheer. Happy Holidays, wherever you are.

We Fabricate, You Decide

2010-12-16T10:13:00.003-07:00

I know it's been a long time since our last post. We've heard about it from friends via facebook, e-mail and on the phone. Yes, we're all right, we're still here. I will give two excuses for our lack of posts and you can decide which one you want to believe.

Number One: We've been so incredibly busy doing all sorts of wonderful and exciting things that we have simply not had time to break away from those activities and write it down. I'm talking about working in the yard on some xeriscaping, gathering rocks for that project, ripping up sidewalks, tearing down cabinets and putting them in new places, finishing the exterior of the doorway to the remodeled bathroom that we finished last summer, and so on and so forth.

Number Two: We've done nothing, absolutely nothing worth wasting your time reading about on our blog so we didn't bother to post about it. I'm talking about working in the yard on some xeriscaping, gathering rocks for that project, ripping up sidewalks, tearing down cabinets and putting them in new places, finishing the exterior of the doorway to the remodeled bathroom that we finished last summer, and so on and so forth.

Home Again, but Not Without a Story

2010-10-23T09:16:00.006-06:00

We survived another trans-Atlantic journey but not without a hitch here and there. We returned our leased Kangoo to the Renault dealer and they gave us, along with Fergus and his kennel, a ride to the Toulouse airport. We got our boarding passes and put Fergus in his cage and sent him off to Denver. We then had to go through security which was heightened because of some unknown threat. In the past, travelling though Toulouse has been wonderful because of the ease of going through security.....but not this time. We had to take our wallets, keys and change out of our pockets, remove our shoes and belts, put our laptop and cameras in a tray, take off my sweater..........and still I had to be patted down and frisked with an electronic device.

We arrived in Frankfurt and after a bus ride to the terminal, had a quick jaunt of a few kilometers through that massive, dysfunctional airport, and through passport control. I'm pretty sure I know where all the grandsons and grand-daughters of the Nazi SS are now working. Yes....passport control.

Because we were flying to the US, we had to go though security again. Keys, wallet, camera, laptop, belt and shoes. We reached our gate and began boarding, but we had to pass though a turnstile. The electronic eye was supposed to read the boarding pass and allow us through the gate, but it didn't work for Nancy. By this time we were frustrated and angry. People were giving Nancy advice. "Turn your boarding pass sideways." "Turn it over." "Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight." Just before the mob behind her became unruly, Nancy got down on her hands and knees and crawled through the turnstile, the throngs cheered, but she immediately got the attention of the Lufthansa staff.

Then we squeezed ourselves into our seats for the nine to ten hour battle with claustrophobia. I swear, next time I am going to take some kind of powerful drug and just spend the entire trip asleep and snoring, perhaps in one of the latrines.

We arrived in Denver in a frazzled state, went through passport control, got our luggage. Fergus arrived in his kennel and then we went through customs. After Nancy walked Fergus, I took off in the shuttle bus for a distant parking lot where my sister had left our car. I had told her to put the keys in the tailpipe, and she had done that. I could feel the keys but I couldn't grasp them. They were a half inch too far up the tailpipe. I wandered around the massive parking lot until I found a beat up old pickup (I can tell you, owners of beat up old pickups don't seem to fly much) and lo and behold, in the bed of the pickup, I found what I was looking for. A piece of bailing wire was mixed in with some hay, a few sticks of firewood, beer cans and the rest of the junk that accumulates in the back of an old pick up. Voila, the keys were in my hands and off I went to retrieve Nancy, Fergus and my sister Peggy who had just flown in from Seattle.

The Denver airport is the size of some counties and closer to Kansas than Denver, but I got back there eventually. I drove to the concourse and discovered there are three levels. Unfortunately the one Nancy and Fergus were on was a level that only buses can access through a security gate. I didn't have a cell phone and I couldn't leave the car and try to find Nancy on foot. They would tow any unoccupied car in this age of paranoid security. I was frazzled; pissed, fatigued and anxious to get to Nancy's location on the secure level, not really thinking clearly. After about three trips around the airport at about five miles a circuit, I piggy-backed through the security gate behind a shuttle bus. It's a trick I learned, but had not used, this summer on the French tollways. The bus driver was on the radio quite quickly reporting the security breach, but I didn't care. I was finally on the level where Nancy and Fergus were waiting for me. Except that they weren't there.

Some nice security agent had informed Nancy that I would never find her on that level in a million years and she should move down the the next level, which she wisely did. Meanwhile, I was driving around the secure level looking for her. I was just about to leave that secure level before I got apprehended, and begin a search of other levels.....when flashing lights appeared in my rear view mirror.

When you are stopped by security, of course, protocol must be followed. I needed to be dealt with by persons much higher up than the ones that stopped me. I endured two lady security personnel tell me what a dumb fuck I was, while I tried to tell them how screwed up their security system was. I don't believe that either of us changed our minds on the major issues, but we agreed to see if they could find Nancy and let me know of her whereabouts. I'm sure that if they had not been able to find Nancy with a handsome black Labrador, and now accompanied by my sister Peggy, the security personnel might have found me very suspicious and hauled me off to jail, or to be waterboarded. After a mercifully short lecture by the chief of security I was on my on my way on another five mile jaunt around the airport to get to the next level, to finally find my family. The sight of them waving to me as I drove up was the best thing I've seen in years.

We went to Peggy's house where we were greeted by Tony and the delicious smell of chili on the stove. I sucked down a bottle of wine, ate chili and salad and went to bed. We were awakened by jet lag at 2:00 am, so we got out of bed and tried to quietly leave the house and start the six hour drive back to Montrose. But we were beset by one more frustration......a flat tire at 3:30 in Brighton. But I can change a tire like a NASCAR professional and soon we were on the road again with coffee, and an egg-a-muffin, watching the sun come up on Monarch Pass.

French Chainsaw Massacre

2010-10-08T08:05:00.005-06:00

The biennial ritual has begun. Pollarding the plane trees. I have read some about this arborist practice of "extremely radical pruning"the leafy growth in order to control the height and size of the tree. It is commonly done to certain species in urban areas in Great Britain and Europe; but I don't think I have ever seen it done in the US.

Leran is now undergoing "French Chainsaw Massacre". A highly efficient crew is working its way along Cours St. Jacques, removing the canopy of massive plane tree leaves. For those of you who have never seen a plane tree, it is similar to the sycamore tree in the US with the papery-thin camouflage bark. I imagine these city employees having to attend "pollarding school", where they learn the techniques of cutting off just enough but not too much.

It may be good for the trees. It certainly keeps the city employees busy for several days. And by next summer, there will be a new full canopy overhead. But from now until then, there won't even be bare branches to look at. Because what is left is just stubs. Butchered stubs. It is like a blight has wiped out the village.

In a country that treasures fine wines, cheeses, breads, art, and architecture, it is aesthetically reprehensible to butcher the most famous tree in France.

There must be alternative solutions, ones that are more visually acceptable and yet accomplish the goal of restraining tree height and size. As I watched the crew buzzing away, it occurred to me that rather than pollard every tree every other year, why not pollard every other tree every year? Get it? This would always leave some leafy foliage until it drops, and branches to soften the harshness of the stubs. If you agree, drop a comment to your local city council person.

To say that Cours St. Jacques has that eerie post-apocalyptic feel and look would not be a stretch. Time to go.

A Day Out of Order

2010-10-08T06:41:00.007-06:00

Our friends visiting from Montana, Ursula and Dee Dee, probably love garage sales as much as I do. So, when I was describing the concept of a vide grenier to them, their eyes lit up. In the thick of summer, there are hardly enough hours on a Sunday to hit every one being held. But they are getting a little sparser as the weather proves to be more unpredictable. Last Sunday in Bram felt a little like being in the Wizard of Oz. The wind was whipping up gusts that was tormenting people selling any lightweight objects. It gave us buyers the edge.

Ursula concentrated on one particular table, loaded with odd hand tools and old keys. These are perfect components for her metal sculptures. Her carry-on bag will now weigh double her body weight. Dee Dee on the other hand, outfitted herself for under 5 Euros with a fabulous scarf/shawl and a gorgeous dress.

Initially, I wandered around, not finding much of anything. Then I stumbled upon a couple folks selling boules. Not new ones, or even slightly used ones. But these were boules that I'm assuming go back a few years. One gentleman showed me how they have a wooden core, then filled in with nails or tacks in various patterns. Some of them had initials woven into the pattern. Of course, these were more expensive than the store-bought variety, but I just have this feeling. I was able to negotiate a little, and chose the "fish scale" pattern. The owner indicated that he was 58 years old and this boules was 53 years old (if I got my numbers right).

Since shopping works up quite an appetite, we headed to Chez Marie's La Table Cathare in Fanjeaux for...what else...cassoulet and chevre chaud and rose. We have been to this restaurant several times and have never been disappointed. The food is great, and Marie is even better.

When we drug ourselves away, the weather was improving, and we certainly needed to work off an excessive lunch. The next thing I knew, Ursula, Dee Dee, Fergus and I were on our way to Montsegur---and not just the village but the Cathar castle.

About half way up the trail to the top, I realized the gravity of our error. Doug was the smart one, by staying home and letting his lunch 'settle'. My cassoulet was rising. Suddenly I couldn't breathe, my chest hurt, there was a bowling ball in my stomach that wanted to be released. I had to sit down. Ursula and Dee Dee wet a bandana to put around my neck. People passing by wanted to know if they could help. Hopefully, I'll never run into any of them again. The bowling ball finally calmed down and I resumed the walk without requiring an ambulance.

I learned a good lesson from this. A vide grenier, cassoulet and a hike make a splendid day---but next time get them in the right order (vide grenier, hike...then the cassoulet).

The View Was to Die For

2010-10-04T08:00:00.005-06:00

On Saturday Nancy and I, along with Ursula and Dede, our visitors from Montana, got out of the car at the parking lot at Queribus and our view was what you see above. It was the first day's outing with our friends to show them the beautiful section of France that we live in. In Leran, it was clear and sunny, but over near the Mediterranean coast, we had a cold and wet fog.

The view from the parking lot should have been something like this (above). My apologies to Jeremey Fressard for stealing his picture, but on a lot of other days, I could have shot this just as well as he did.

A cobweb at the first informational sign was dripping with moisture telling you everything you need to know about the weather.

We climbed the gravelled trail up to the fortified entrance to Queribus and I took a picture of Ursula and Dede taking a picture of me. This is the chute that was over the doorway, down which you would pour boiling oil on your attackers. Ouch. There were arrow chutes in all the strategic places; anyplace an attacker would stand to try to break down the door was exposed to arrows.

We could barely see where we were going, and we could not see the top of the chateau.

At one point, it was if the interpretive signs were trying to rub the nasty weather in our faces. There, below the stone guard rail was this sign pointing out all the majestic beauty of the valley below us. At least it's what we would have seen if we had more than about 20 yards of visibility. At the very top of the photograph above the rock wall is the gray void of fog. Still, the chateau was fascinating the way it was perched upon the rock and had a commanding view (or so it's said) of the likely routes of the invading armies.

Nancy and Dede were happy because there were dungeons and circular stairways, a chapel and a latrine, a cistern and a tower; everything a good castle should have. Queribus is one of the so called "Five Sons of Carcassonne", along with Aguilar, Peyrepertuse, Termes and Puilaurens. The five castles were strategically placed to defend the French border against the Spanish, which was somewhat to the north of the present day border. In 1659, Louis XIV of France and Philip IV of Spain signed the Treaty of the Pyrenees, sealed with the marriage of the infant Marie Therese to the French monarch. The treaty changed the borders, moving the frontier south to the crest of the Pyrenees, the present Franco-Spanish border. The fortresses thus lost their importance. Some maintained a garrison of soldiers until the French Revolution, but they slowly fell into decay, often becoming shepherd's' shelters or bandits hideouts.

It was a very spooky visit due to the lousy weather. We all felt as if snow was imminent, but a few hours later we sat outdoors at a cafe near the river in Quillan and had a glass of wine in the warm sunshine.

Rick Steves Has Been There Before Us

2010-10-04T07:14:00.004-06:00

Nancy and I were wandering around Minerve, over in the Herault, and we decided it had to be in some popular guidebook or another. We heard plenty of North American voices, Canadian or US, I couldn't say. The village of Minerve is in a gorgeous setting, situated as it is, along some limestone bluffs carved out by the River Cesse. Obviously, it was constructed there for defensive purposes, because it was sure hard to get to, even by car. The bridge you see in the picture was constructed in the years just before WWI, and it is intended for use only by the residents.

It was a town of narrow streets winding through archways and cobblestone pavements everywhere. People had found places to put gardens and terraces where they could get a little bit of air and sun.

If you walk through the village and down into the gorge, you can walk under the bridge and back up into the other side of town. Meanwhile, when down in the gorge you can see the two natural bridges. During the wet season, water flows out of the cavern pictured below. This is the smaller of the two natural bridges. The informational signs explained that just a little while ago (in geological time) there was a minor uplift in the Minerve region, and the river then had to carve it's way through the rock and over time created the gorge (and some natural bridges). Just like the Grand Canyon, only quicker.

I thought that this house on the rim of the gorge and sitting on top of the natural bridge would have been an incredible setting for a house. You would probably want a very good insurance policy paid up at all times, and wild drunken parties would be a very bad idea.

A few days later, our friends arrived from Montana and they brought along a copy of Rick Steve's guidebook to all of France. There are entire guidebooks on the Languedoc alone, and deservedly so. But, among the very few places in Languedoc that Steves recommends is Minerve, hence all the familiar voices.

And of course, Minerve has a colorful history. Once again, I briefly quote from Wikipedia: In 1210 a group of Cathars sought refuge in the village after the massacre of Béziers during the Albigensian Crusade. The village was besieged by Simon de Montfort, 5th Earl of Leicester. The attacking army besieged the village for six weeks before it capitulated. They set up four catapults around the fortification: three to attack the village, and the largest, Malevoisine, to attack the town's water supply. Eventually the commander of the 200-strong garrison, Viscount Guilhem of Minerve, gave in and negotiated a surrender which saved the villagers and himself after the destruction of the town's main well. However, 140 Cathars refused to give up their faith and were burned to death at the stake on 22 July.

Live...It's Saturday Night....In Leran

2010-09-30T01:54:00.005-06:00

Last week, from Wednesday evening until Friday morning, there was a national strike going on in France. As part of a national movement against the government's retirement reform, all air traffic controllers, SCNF (French national railroad) workers, and Paris public transportation agents took a few days off. Strikes are not unusual events in France, and people learn to adjust. So did Barry-Oke, when he learned that his Thursday flight was grounded, and he couldn't escape Leran until the following Monday. He was forced to cancel his weekend singing gig in England, and extend his 'Tour de Leran' for another night.

Since our social calender had prevented us from catching his earlier performance, we were delighted to hear the unfortunate airway news. Marek, the village crier, was quick to issue an email invitation. When summoned, Leran answers, and a crowd appeared.

Barry's regular sidekick and provider of musical accompaniment in Leran, Alan Simmons, was off in Spain. Emma, a recent addition to Leran, luckily travels with her guitar and graciously offered to stand in. Additionally, she added back-up vocals.

Lynn, Barry's lovely wife, made the trip to Leran this time. We had not met her before, and thoroughly enjoyed our conversations. Lynn suggested that one of the bar's staff, Lise, come up and sing a few songs. Lise is French, and working at the bar is improving her English at a lightning pace. Lise and Barry belted out a few songs back and forth in French and English. Then Barry turned Lise loose.

I spent several hours attempting to upload video clips we took that night of Barry, Barry and Emma, and Lise. Only one would load. I wish you could have heard it all. I guess either Blogger or Sony are on strike. (Click on the video to play)

Rennes-le-Chateau

2010-09-26T04:08:00.005-06:00

This strange, devilish statue is just inside the door of the little church in Rennes-le-Chateau, where it has been standing since 1896, when a poor parish priest undertook a major renovation of the church and grounds in the tiny isolated village near Limoux. This little church has quite a notorious past, however, most of it is entirely speculation.

A few days ago we visited Rennes-le-Chateau, a place made even more famous by the movie "The Da Vinci Code". The church and grounds are beautiful, to be sure, but the real story is of the priest, Father Berenger Sauniere. Beginning with his tenure here in 1885,the priest transformed the run down, ready to collapse church into a thing of beauty. The mystery, and the most enjoyable thing about the visit, is learning the theories about where Father Sauniere obtained funds to finance this restoration. We bought the comic book version of the story (which is probably pure speculation but just as reliable as anything else) and it postulates that Sauniere found a stash of gold that was hidden in the church just before the French Revolution. The gold was thought to be that of wealthy parishioners who died in the violence or fled France. There are other more magnificent theories that say the gold was Templar treasure, Visigoth loot or a stash of gold hidden by Cathars before being persecuted out of existence. Even mention of the Holy Grail pops up here and there.

Here's a page from the comic book. You can see the good father's housekeeper, Marie Denarnaud, who, it is said was quite attractive, who never married and who was buried right next to Sauniere, thirty years after his death in 1917. So, we've got speculation about finding gold and the unspoken suggestion of illicit sex between a supposed celibate priest and his unmarried housekeeper. Wow, this is good stuff!

Besides refurbishing the church, Father Sauniere also bought property in Marie's name (hmmm...she must have been a good housekeeper) and built towers and greenhouses and a sumptuous cottage where he entertained important guests. He sounds to me more like a crooked mayor, or a gangster, than a priest. But the villagers loved him, perhaps because they all worked for him on his renovation projects. The good father was defrocked in 1915 because the Catholic hierarchy suspected him of dipping his fingers into church funds. While he was no longer a priest, Marie still owned the nearby villa, gardens, tower and greenhouse, so Sauniere didn't have to move too far away. In fact, only a few feet.

The greenhouse is very cool indeed and has a great 360 degree view of the vineyards and mountains nearby. I was surprised to find that no one has accused Father Sauniere of growing marijuana in his greenhouse.

Here's the final resting place of the good father, and Marie is supposed to be buried nearby, but I didn't find the spot because I wasn't looking for it. Well, it's all quite a good yarn, but there may be no truth what-so-ever to any of the speculation. Father Sauniere may have raised the cash legitimately from anonymous donors and Marie may have been quite plain looking and died a virgin with some nice real estate. But one thing's for sure: in this part of France, with all the other fantastic things to see, the chateau is hardly worth a visit without all of the lurid speculation.

From the Department of Strange Coincidents Department

2010-09-24T08:22:00.007-06:00

Remember this young lady that I photographed on August 24th near Leran?

And this young lady, remember her? I shot her a few days before on August 20th, a few miles away, in Lavalenet. They are the same person.

I just realized that it was the same person while looking at my photos. It certainly didn't dawn on me at the time. She must lead an interesting, very un-conventional life, travelling around in a horse drawn wagon, fashioning baskets from willow shoots. But she doesn't seem very happy, or maybe she doesn't like me sticking my camera in her face.

I can't confirm that it's the same ring but it's on the same finger. Now, if I can just get another photo of her someday, maybe I can get her to smile.

French Laundry

2010-09-22T09:23:00.009-06:00

The laundry system at our house in France has always been a sore point with me. Since we don’t have a yard or garden to string a clothesline, we either must hang the clothes indoors or use the dryer. The dryer also is a less than ideal choice, since it vents inside and ends up creating a sauna-like atmosphere when you don’t really want it (i.e., on some hot, muggy summer days). I know I shouldn’t be griping, because anything beats sitting in a laundro-mat, reading 6-year old copies of Reader’s Digest. Bear with me, as my whining does have some good merit.

After fussing with those portable laundry racks for a couple years, we found a 5-line retractable clothesline unit in one of the bricolage stores last summer. Doug installed it between two beams in the salon on the deuxieme etage (USA 3rd floor). We generate most of the dirty laundry on the deuxieme etage, where our bedroom and bathroom are, and then it has to be hauled down to be laundered and then back up to be hung out. I finally just got tired of carrying the laundry basket up and down the 29 steps, knowing that one day I’d miss a step and take a unexpected shortcut down.

So I started lobbying for a solution, some sort of pulley system to lower and raise the laundry basket. The stairwell is open and I thought there might be a possibility, but it takes some odd twists and turns and didn’t look too positive. When our friends John and Eileen were visiting, I mentioned my dilemma, and Eileen suggested rigging the pulley outside the back window in the little courtyard. Eileen, being a long-time follower of Alicia Bay-Laurel, as well as an occupational therapist since college, is always crafting up clever solutions.

All at once, a brilliant plan went into action. John and Doug did a quick assessment of materials needed: pulley, rope, big eye hook, S hook and long stick (the French equivalent of an 8’ 2 x 2. I bet you are trying to figure out why the long stick. The eye hook was to be screwed into the roof sheathing outside our bedroom window. Without hanging in mid-air out the window, there was no way to reach the edge of the sheathing, so first they taped the cordless drill to the end of the long stick to drill a starter hole. After cutting a saw kerf in the end of the long stick and inserting the eye hook, they then used it as an extra long “reacher” to screw in the hook. The long stick wasn’t done yet. The pulley was taped to the end of the stick and “hooked” onto the eye hook. Within an hour the first load of laundry was hoisted up.

Four minds came together on a summer’s afternoon. A simple plan, well executed.

Tour des Pyrenees Mountain Challenge

2010-09-21T05:40:00.008-06:00

We had heard about the Heritage clan's trans-Pyrenees Mountain bicycle challenge, from St. Jean de Luz on the Atlantic coast to Collioure on the Mediterranean. A mere 750 kms distance (450 miles) and 11,000 meters elevation gain. Julian and Gwenda Gray transported their son Tom back from England so he could participate with Craig and Jo. Since Strath and Cam couldn't drop out of school for the week, Julian and Gwenda also transported the lads on Friday afternoon so they could share the weekend torture.

We figured the least we could do was take a leisurely drive into Spain, spend the night in Bossost, and watch the athletes summit the Col du Portillon. As luck would have it, we ran into Julian and Gwenda just in time for lunch. We learned that the past couple days cycling for the Heritage group were pure hell---rain, cold and monster hills. It had been 3 degrees C (37 degrees F) on the Col du Tourmalet. My personal experience included commuting by bicycle for several years and taking several long cycling trips, so I can attest to what an instant morale buster bad weather can be.

When we arrived at the top of the Col du Portillon (1293 m), it was great to see that Jo was all smiles. The sun was shining, the sky was a cloudless blue, and it was shirt-sleeve temperature. Tom Gray had already made it to the top and Jo was waiting for her crew to arrive. The bad weather had taken its toll on everyone, and spirits needed rejuvenating.

Within a few minutes, Strath rounded the bend. And if you click on the photo below, I'd say that look has that "piece a cake" attitude, as if he did this every day.

Cam pedaled the final bit with a huge smile on his face, which made me think he must be out of his mind. But then, youth can sustain anything.

Jo was beside herself with pride in Strath and Cam, and who wouldn't be. It's not everyday your family hops on bikes and pedals over the Col du Tourmalet, the Col d'Aspin, the Col de Peyresourde and the Col du Portillon. Some families wear themselves out working the buttons of the TV remote control.

Last, but not least, Craig powered up the hill. I think he just wanted to make sure the boys got up before him. He might have been sweating a bit, but I don't think anybody noticed.

I'm pretty sure I heard these guys say that this was going to be an annual event. Didn't I hear that? Or was it once in the spring and once in the fall?

Julian and Gwenda head over to Collioure to help with the shuttle back. It's just damn lucky that these bicycle challenges occur in some spectacular places. Well done, all.

Pre-Historic Paintings in the Niaux Caves

2010-09-18T02:37:00.006-06:00

John and Eileen wanted to visit the Niaux caves so I escorted them over to Tarascon (Nancy had gone last year with our niece, Kate, and declined another trip). I went to the cave in 2007, and less than a year before we had been to the Caves at Lascaux II. Those paintings are reproductions as are the caves themselves. In order to protect the paintings from CO2, and the subsequent deterioration, they were forced to build a total replica of the site, which is very finely done. The Niaux caves, however, are the real deal. You get to see paintings made by mankind around 13,850 years ago, give or take a few years. The cave paintings may have been far more numerous in the past, but now they only exist where the cave walls have remained dry for the past 13,000 years.

Let me put that number in perspective. Thirteen to fourteen thousand years ago is too much time for humans to imagine. As you walk the kilometer underground to the cave paintings, you pass graffiti from early cave visitors from 1603 and later, and to us, that seemed quite impressive. That time frame seems impossibly ancient to us North Americans, who think in terms of just a few generations. Our tour guide, Miriam, explained that those visitors from the recent past felt little appreciation for the paintings because they had not yet been carbon dated, and they thought mankind began with Adam and Eve just a number of generations previous, therefore felt no guilt when they left names and dates in the cave. Two thousand years ago we have the Roman Empire and Jesus Christ alive and healthy. The Egyptian pyramids were being constructed about five thousand years ago, give or take a few hundred years. Even that is a mind-boggling amount of time for me to imagine.

We were only able to stay a short time in front of the paintings because our mere presence hastens the deterioration process. But, we were able to study them and wonder why they were created, why only some animals were chosen to paint, mostly bison, horses and ibex, and why early mankind ventured to far underground to paint when they had other rock canvasses nearby? Scientists are able to answer some questions, such as what was used for paint and when they were painted, but no one can say with certainty why they were made. So, when I look at paintings made by mankind thirteen thousand years ago, I can rest assured I will never see anything, no evidence of man's passage, that is older. The only place I will see evidence of man that is more ancient is human bones, or stone tools, in a museum, and that doesn't fire my imagination like a paining on a cave wall.

(Please note that these are not my photos, as you are not allowed to take pictures in the caves. These are photos from other websites. My thanks to them.)

Quiz Night at Le Rendez-Vouz....or....It Is Whether You Win or Lose

2010-09-17T07:06:00.012-06:00

Last night was Quiz Night at Le Rendez-Vous Bar, the fifth or sixth recurring event, back by popular demand. We were first-time attendees, as were our partners (a couple from near Antwerp, Belgium). I will allow them the privacy of remaining nameless. We recently learned that Quiz Night is a common pub happening in England, but Marek's bi-lingual Franco-Britannique twist might well be a first. We chose our team name, TEAM FLEMCO (Flemish + Colorado). It sounded strong, proud, patriotic and a winner.

Teams of four, alternating questions in French and English, interspersed with a curry supper and pichet of wine---a superb evening of fun for 10 Euros. Marek distributed the packets explaining Rules of the game and what proved to be an intentionally sketchy outline of the five "categories": What, Where, When, How and Why. We also received a Joker card to be played at the beginning of a round to double points.

The last piece of paper was a compilation of old baby and childhood photo head shots. We had until the end of supper to identify each of these individuals. You must click on this one to enlarge for some good laughs.

With microphone in hand, Marek, the master of ceremonies, welcomed us to the festivities and passed out the first page of questions (the category WHAT). Immediately a sense of doom fell upon us. The questions in English were no more understood than those we could translate from the French. While our Belgian partners spoke excellent English, there were nuances that fall through the cracks when translating. The English questions didn't always refer to matters English, Canadian, Australian, or American; and likewise, nor did the French questions always refer to French matters.

We considered the first round a warm-up, and looked forward to Round 2 (WHERE), which we assumed to be geography. Doug suggested using our Joker card so that we could double our points. He felt confident he could identify countries, maps, oceans, anything smacking of geography. Marek has had numerous attempts practicing his format at Quiz Night, and our assumption that WHERE would be akin to geography in the familiar sense of the word was naive. Questions in this category included "Where are the phalanges?" or "Where did Dorothy want to go after the tornado?". Our double point score was 6 (total possible was 20).

We knew we would be guessing at many of the European sports questions, and how right we were. Who knew there are 15 red snooker balls? How many players on a cricket team, or what is the name of the French rugby league? That was to be expected, but to total embarrassment, we tanked on questions about American culture. Where is the beginning of Route 66 (according to the song) or how old was the 35th president of the US when assassinated, or where is the US Open played? Why can't they ask something about the Broncos or Yellowstone National Park?

After each round, we exchanged papers with a neighboring team to correct each others. As Marek read out the correct answers, there were whoops and hollers, and equal boos. We did attempt to argue our answer to one or two questions, but Judge Marek insisted there were no appeals, no rebuttals. I mean, who in the Rocky Mountain states actually believes that the purpose of tire tread is to channel away water rather than for traction in snow? In the end, a point or two wouldn't have helped much.

Shirley was (as usual) back in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. She took time between cooking and dishwashing to pose for a smiling photo, and ask if I was coming round hoping to get a few answers. Shirley! How could you think that! I only came back to compliment the chef.

In between each round and during dinner, we hovered over the photo page. Marek was elusive about who these people could be, calling them "celebrities" or people we would know. We went back and forth, narrowing it down to the eyes, the mouth, the ears, one fragment of recognition. In the end we just wrote down names. I have left both the name Team FLEMCO wrote and the correct name on the page. I leave it for you to decide. By the way, Team FLEMCO got 3 out of the 12 correct.

Le Rendez-Vous friendly and able staff (Sophie and Elyse) sped between tables, filling and refilling glasses and pitchets. Thinking builds up a powerful thirst. They finally had a chance later in the evening to rest their feet. Amazing that they were still bubbling with good cheer.

Billy and Sally's team scored our paper, and we generally caught this happy look on their faces, knowing full well we didn't stand a chance.

The Misfits team, concocting yet another humorous answer. For instance: Q: When are the Miranda Rights pronounced? Misfits response: during marriage. Well done. Better yet, when the correct answer (under arrest) was announced, there was this undercurrent of "what's the difference"?

Rumors were circulating that Nigel's baby photo might just have made it onto the famous photo sheet. Hint, hint....bottom row, middle. See any resemblance?

After a brief intermission, Marek announced that the standings were posted. Doug rushed in and looked at the sheet on the wall. He called out "Hey, we're in 4th". Then he looked closer. They weren't listed by cumulative scores, just a random team listing. We were indeed in the fourth slot on the list, but our point score of 26 landed us in 11th place.

That's right, not every team can win, or even come in second, or third, or fourth, fifth, sixth, and so on. I think you can see where this is going. Team FLEMCO came in dead last, 11th to be exact. It would have been 12th, but one team disqualified itself due to too many players. Perhaps we should have thought of an equally dignified excuse before it was too late.

The way I look at it, we can't get much worse. Can we just not be last again?

I Asked One Question, And Another, And Another...

2010-09-16T08:11:00.011-06:00

I have a memory of my mother ironing while watching a TV broadcast of Nikita Kruschev talking at the U.N. More correctly, he was shouting, screaming and pounding his shoe on the table at the UN. An interpreter in an accented voice was translating the unfriendly words. I was not quite 10. What I remember as being remarkable about this event was that, even though there was a delayed translation, my mother was recognizing some of the words he was speaking. This was definitely more interesting than ironing to her. I had heard the name Kruschev, the term Cold War, was amused by a grown man pounding a shoe, never thought twice about why my mother understood this foreign language, and packaged the memory away for 50 years.

Why now, I ask myself? Why am I now curious about Rusyn vs Russian? I never once discussed being "Rusyn" or "Russian" with my mother. While my brother had a phonetic understanding of the home village name, I was clueless. When I started Google-ing different combinations of search terms to enlighten me on who the Rusyns were, I realized that the information out there is as confusing and disjointed as the ethnicity itself. Everything, everything, even beginning with where they came from is muddled.

Then I came across an article, written by an 'outsider', a non-Rusyn, to clear up a few things. The article was from The Pittsburg City Paper, authored by Chris Potter. From what I have already read, Pennsylvania could have been called "Little Ruthenia" in the early 20th century. Close to 100,000 Rusyns ended up in the Keystone State, my grandparents included. They were married and had their first child in Pennsylvania, before moving on to Indiana. In order to write the article, Potter attended the Pittsburgh Folk Festival and viewed Rusyn identity politics in action over heated discussions about the difference between nationality and ethnicity. In summary, Potter concludes, Rusyns are like the Basques of Spain---"one of those countless and usually uncounted peoples whose roles on the global stage has largely consisted of bit parts written by someone else."

The Rusyn homeland (northeast Slovakia, southern Poland, western Ukraine) has been described as terra nullius (no-man's land) and terra indagines (the land in-between). Because it was at the crossroads between east and west, its location was strategic and found itself the center of attention all too often. Potter quotes a common joke among Rusyns, that their family has lived in five different countries without moving once. This references the shifts in rule under the Magyars of Hungary, the Poles, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Nazis, the Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia. But there was one day in 1939, one short 24-hour period that the Republic of Ruthenia existed. This joke is one that can no doubt be told by many ethnicities and some nationalities. A people whose sin was geography.

I make no attempt to explain the Greek Catholic Church. My mother was baptised as a Greek Catholic, but I was raised Roman Catholic. I do remember that St. Nicholas Day (6 December) and the Epiphany (6 January) were important dates to her. I think the Rusyns originally were practicing in the Eastern Orthodox church, and at some point in the 1600's a schism occurred which resulted in a bartering session and creation of the Greek Catholic Church. The priests were given a position of elevation, allowed to marry, were connected to the Vatican and the Pope but retained all the trappings of Eastern Orthodoxy.

Whereas the priests benefitted from this religion paradigm shift, the peasants probably did not. Potter quotes what he describes as a rueful summary of Rusyn history:

"First they took our God, then they took our land, and then they took our identity...Many Rusyn immigrants surrendered each of those things on their own. For immigrants, the goal was just to make a living, and not stick out your head...The second generation is the melting pot---being Rusyn is the past, you're American now. It's the third generation that really begins to take an interest."

My grandparents were the immigrants. They both died in their early 50's, so I never met them. My grandfather worked a laborer's job, they lived in company housing. My mother often talked about going to a 'settlement house' in the neighborhood, sort of a community hall for the immigrant populations and activities for children. My grandparents had six children, all of whom had an anglicized surname. I'm not sure when or how the surname changes occurred, but it fits in with the description of the previous paragraph---'you are an American now'. And, as I have said, my mother and I didn't talk about her childhood all that much, and we never talked about her parents or anything she might have heard about her grandparents. And then it comes to me, the 3rd generation. For nearly 60 years I ignored a full half of my ancestry. And then one day, I asked one question, and another, and another.....

When I contracted my researcher Michael and provided him the name of my grandparents and their home village, he countered by initially doubting that those were surnames from that village. I thought what an odd comment. To know a village by people's surname. As it turned out, my family was from Hostovice. There was only one Szteranka family in the village. As far as the Kicsas go, in true Rusyn form, things are muddled. But what he was explaining was that in the 1800's in the Rusyn homeland, people didn't leave their village much. There was no need, perhaps, except to emigrate.

I asked Michael about my memory hearing my mother translate Nikita Kruschev, and whether I could have been imagining this. He said no, it was indeed possible and probably likely. Rusyn and Russian have similar words, because Rusyn is a mixture of East and West. It's still all muddled, but that's what piques this mongrel's interest.

Thanks to Chris Potter for the story "How the Rusyns Could Save Civilization" URL:

http://www.pittsburghcitypaper.ws/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A52607

The Carpathian Wooden Road

2010-09-14T04:10:00.012-06:00

I have heard Rusyns called by many names: Ruthenes, Sub-Carpathians, Rusniaks, Lemkos, Ukraines, and the list goes on. Perhaps this is the lot of a "lost people", a people without their own country. While they may be a people without a country, they certainly have left standing memorials of a cultural institution, their Greek Catholic Church. These memorials are the Carpathian Wooden Churches.

Villages with barely three-digit populations are home to the most striking architecture in north-east Slovakia, 27 in total built in the 17th and 18th centuries. Their overall "tripartite" design may look similar with three onion-shaped domes, but no two are identical. There was no blueprint to order and follow. The carpenters, artisans and villagers expressed their individuality. This is a striking (and thankfully refreshing) difference from the Soviet Bloc apartments in Slovakia's larger cities during the communist rule.

The location of the churches was generally on the edge of a village, on a hill if possible. The village cemetary was usually in close proximity and a fence surrounded the entire area.

The churches were constructed entirely from wood that had a high resin content for its weather resistance. Some of the woods used included red spruce, pine, fir, beech and yew. Only the best materials were chosen. Axes were used to reduce logs into planks. The walls were weather-resistant, but most of the churches were exteriorly sided with shingles or board and batten. An additional safeguard against a damp climate, the churches were built on a stone foundation, and some had shingle skirting around the base of the outside walls to divert water away from the foundation.

The most fascinating construction methodology I came across was reference to the fact that there were no nails used. That's right: there were no nails used in the entire construction. This is because Christ was nailed to the cross, so nails were perceived as a form of torture. Instead, wooden pegs made of walnut were substituted throughout.

My favorite: The Church of the Demise of the Mother of God! Go figure.

Architectural styles of the wooden churches are distinguishable, and although we only saw a few of Slovakia's 27 churches, we could pick out the Lemko from the Boiko design. Both styles are called "tripartite" with three domes, but the location of the tallest cupola varies. In the Lemko design, the highest cupola of the church is at the entrance with the two other domes sloping down towards the sanctuary. The Boiko design varies in that the highest cupola is above the nave. Several of the Carpathian wooden churches sustained heavy damage during WWII and underwent restoration. Even now, some of the churches get "facelifts" with new shingles. Doug thought he was pretty sure nails were being used on these later renovations. Hmmmm. I'll have to think about that.

Tourist Excursion to The Château de Puilaurens

2010-09-13T06:18:00.002-06:00

We are running out of Cathar castles to go to because we visited one more the other day. It was a gorgeous summer morning and we decided to take John and Eileen to visit one of the castles that we had not yet seen. The choice was between Queribus and Puilaurens and we chose the latter because it was closer. It was a very fascinating place, due mostly to the complexity of the fortifications. Its not as impressive as Peyrepertuse, nor in a situation as spectacular as Montsegur, but it's worth a visit.

The first defensive fortifications begin on the approach to the entrance, where you must climb through nine switchbacks. At each 180 degree turn in the assault, assuming you were attacking the castle, you would be assailed with arrows from above. In the photo, Nancy and Eileen round a switchback about midway through the climb. And below, Nancy's silhouette (a good French word) appears in the first defensible gate.

There were many places for the defenders of the chateau to pour boiling oil, drop rocks, and rain down arrows though arrow slits as the attackers worked to power though a stout wooden gate. Below is one of the defensive towers, which used to have several floors and a roof, but which now gives a lovely view of the sky.

Below is the view out of the south "poterne", down to the south east off towards Perpignan. I had never seen the word poterne used in connection with castle openings before, but lo and behold, Nancy and I spent a day and night in the English village of Poterne, not too far from the Cotswolds. What is the connection between the French word poterne and the English village? Will one of our informed readers please clue us in below in the comment section?

I did not recognize the contraption below as a latrine, but it is marked as such in the literature they hand out as you enter the chateau. I remember very clearly the latrine in Peyrepertuse, and it's function was unmistakable; bars over a hole at very comfortable seated height, and the drop into oblivion that would remove the flies and odors to an agreeable distance. But this latrine was a little more obscure. And remember kids, click on 'em to enlarge 'em.

I will now plagiarize from wikipedia to give you a little insight on the history of the chateau, and if you want to know more, you can always do the google:

Puilaurens was ceded to the French some time before 1255. After 1258 its possession by the French crown was ratified by the Treaty of Corbeil, when the Aragonese border was moved south. In 1260, it was garrisoned by 25 sergeants. It was taken by Spanish troops in 1635, but lost all strategic importance after the Treaty of the Pyrenees in 1659 when the border was moved even further south to its present position along the crest of the Pyrenees.

In the 13th century it belonged to the Lords of Fenouillet. Defended by Pierre Catala and, more importantly, by Guillaume de Peyrepertuse, it withstood attack by Simon de Montfort and his successors until the end of the crusades. After 1243, its owner was Roger Catala, Pierre's son, but it was defended, like Quéribus, by Chabert de Barbaira, a Cathar military commander who was the last person to defend the Occitan cause.

Numerous Cathar deacons sought refuge here after the fall of Montsegur. It is thought that the castle was finally forced to surrender (probably around the same time as Queribus) c.1255.

Living on the Earth

2010-09-08T06:00:00.000-06:00

Eileen and John Kaser arrive tomorrow afternoon for a week in Leran before heading off to Switzerland. They live in Montrose Colorado, the town where we recently moved. Our history with the Kasers goes back a long, long time. I thought you might enjoy the ride.

About 40 years ago (c. 1970) I was more-or-less attending Northwestern University near Chicago. It was a tumultous time in the States for college kids struggling for direction---political, moral, social, you name it. The VietNam War was raging. After the incident at Kent State University, I took my cue to drop out, and a year later I found myself visiting a fellow disillusioned dorm friend who was now attending school in Colorado. One thing led to another, I bought my first car (Magic Crud), packed up my 4 LP albums and moved to Colorado. Over the next few years, Eileen and I embarked on numerous life-changing adventures, at least for me. Of course, at the time, Eileen was called "Tom-O-Hawk" and I was "Growling Horse".

We were somehow blessed with two books that became our bibles. The Indian Tipi became the DIY manual for our summer housing project. I rented a portable sewing machine, only to return weekly to have them repair it. I was never asked what the hell I was sewing. We scrounged materials from surplus stores and roadside dumps. We advertised for land to erect the tipi, and then missed the mark by 100 feet when we pitched it. It began a summer more memorable than most.

The other manual of biblical proportion to us was Alicia Bay Laurel's (probably not her real name) very famous hippie book Living On The Earth. I understand it is now into it's 25+ edition. I think we had the 2nd edition. It was all one needed when living in a tipi. It was classic---one-page instructions for everything, and I mean everything. And we attempted more than a few, with less then stellar results. There was dandelion wine, tire tread sandals, yoghurt, bean sprouts. The instructions were generally so vague, that there was no possible outcome except failure. I especially remember my first yoghurt: something about putting the milk in a jar, adding some sort of acidic liquid, closing the jar, putting black cloth over the jar and setting in the sun. The only acidic liquid I had was a jar of pickles, so that's what got used. Yum, yum, yum. The instructions for tire tread sandals didn't account for cutting through steel belting. Dandelion wine never instructed us to first sterilize the garbage can we were using to ferment the mass. Get the picture?

Eileen was attending summer school, and would often have to study. I was working an agricultural labor job in town, getting paid $1.40 an hour, sometimes 10+ hours a day. It made me think college wasn't such a bad idea after all. There was no time for either of us to run errands, so Eileen suggested importing her 16 year-old sister MJ out as our gopher. It surprised me when her parents agreed to the idea, but it was a brilliant scheme. MJ had just received her driver's license, so she was thrilled at the idea of cruising around all day on her own, then retreiving each of us at the end of the day.

We were city girls who were enchanted living in the mountains. Magic Crud, my car, couldn't make it up all the way on the rutted road, so we had to walk the last half-mile every day. We carried our provisions in rudimentary boy scout packs. One friend built us a latrine that looked out at the Never Summer Range. Another friend constructed a tripod for our 50 gallon water carrier, since there was no running water on the property. We had a great fire pit and a triangular cooking platform built between three trees. Eat your heart out, Alica Bay!

The only rule we had about friends coming up to visit was that they had to bring water. Water was our precious commodity, so anyone with 4WD who could bring a large quantity was especially welcomed. Except for the time some friends brought water up in used gas cans. I'm sure our breath would have ignited with a match for some time after that.

Eileen and I had known John for some time, and we had been part of a group of friends. I'm not quite clear on the chronology, but at some point, Eileen and John went from just friends to more than just friends. You'll have to ask them. John was of great assistance during the planning and implementation phases of the tipi. I remember one evening in a parking lot, tracing out a huge semi-circle onto the canvas that would eventually become the tipi. I do believe John came up with the idea of how to draw an 18' circle on the ground. When the day came to haul our tipi poles (which in reality turned out to be corral poles), Eileen and I started carrying them up one at a time, then two people on one. Then there was the brilliant idea to rent a Jeep and drag them up. Might have been John again.

Because we had no running water and no large water reservoir, we had to address taking showers before we could actually move up there. Eileen was enrolled at school, so she could use the university gym. The greenhouses where I worked had a bathroom with shower, so I was given permission to use their facilities. I can't remember what MJ did, but at 16 who knows? We each had a set of "tipi clothes" that we only wore when at the tipi, because they were so smoke-permeated. We then changed into "city clothes" down in town. At the end of the summer I have a vague memory of putting our tipi clothes into a final farewell bonfire. At least I'm sure I don't have mine anymore. Only the memories. And the friends.