So Why Are You Calling Me?

When we left Leran last September we put our telephone and internet on "suspension". For a nominal fee we could retain our phone number (which took forever to obtain) and with the promise of a mere phone call from Moab to reinstate, I took the bait. Two weeks before departure, I started calling the France Telecom English-Speaking Hotline. My two favorite recordings---in fact, the only recordings I repeatedly heard---were: "Thank you for calling....all our lines are busy....thank you for calling back later"; or, "Your call is being handled in the order in which it was received". I could only listen to the latter recitation a couple million times before I had to disengage and move the next bloke one up in the queue.


Our departure date came and went and I still hadn't connected with my friends at France Telecom. I was resigned to making an in-person trip to Pamiers, wait in the in-person queue there and conduct business the old-fashioned way. We did this last Tuesday on the way back from dropping off our rental car in Carcassonne. It was as if I was blessed since I waltzed in and out with nary a hitch. I presented my facture (bill) to the young gentleman and explained that "J'ai la telephone et le internet sur suspension et je voudrais faire meme chose comme avant". What I hoped I was saying, roughly, was "I have a telephone and internet on suspension and would like the same as before. You must understand that this was a memorable sentence for me, and the last thing I was remotely concerned about was whether I had proper tense or proper gender stuff. I just wanted to see the light go on in the guy's eyes.


He indicated he understood, clicked on the computer, punched a few keys to pull up the account and Voila! Pas de problem, madame! Aujourd'hui ou demain, he informed me. Not bad I thought. But when Thursday rolled around and no internet I began to worry, and started calling the FT English-speakers again. No luck. No big surprise. No internet on Friday, so I decided to stay on the line until the proverbial cows came home with the FT folks. A good 20 minutes went by before a distinctive click in the phone line occurred.


I introduced myself with my name, phone number and stating that I had been to Pamiers to get re-connected but still no internet. The gentleman interrupted "So, why are you calling me today?" After waiting 20 minutes I was a little taken back with his customer service approach, but plodded on. I explained that I 'expected' internet service on Thursday, so was checking to see if something was wrong. (I think 'expect' is a word not to be used in dealing with French services.) He then changed tactics, and asked me if I wanted to receive my bills by the email of my choice. I'll make him happy and say yes, I thought. I made a grave error in attempting to clarify my email address, however, when he suddenly interjected "I do this every day for a living". Desole.....


Before cutting me off, he humored me by checking the account and discovered that the person in Pamiers had connected our internet to a dial-up instead of a broadband account and that is why it wasn't working. "That person didn't know what he was doing, he shouldn't be working there. I have now done it correctly. It will take four days, it always takes four days for it to work...never the same day. Good bye".


Four days would have been Monday or Tuesday, but Saturday morning we had internet. I think that person in Pamiers actually did get it right. And, he was very polite. Once again, we are reminded that if we spoke better French our lives would be much less complicated. The simplest things become obscure when your language skills are fuzzy.

The Morning Ritual

Two months of rain and early morning soft light result in a landscape that is easy on the eyes, soggy on the feet, apparently benefical to the crops, and equally amenable to Fergus. With the shutters only partially closed (we're not pure French), the bedroom remains dark long after sun-up. I rely on two key indicators that it's time to arise: Fergus' stirring around, and more imperatively, that I have to heed the call of nature. I've conquered jet lag once again, it's about 5:45 a.m., and Leran is barely twitching---except for Cecilia at La Boulangerie, who is probably well into her day at work.








I'm allowed a quick cup of coffee, saddle up the critter, and head out. In the field next to the Chateau, a flock of noisy sheep are pruning the weeds and grasses. Through the fence, Fergus meets these alien species and is intrigued. (I find it quaint that the wealthy Chateauans, ensconced in their high-rise medieval apartments, find time to tend to flocks of grazing animals. It is good to know that they also "get back to the land".) We continue on through the lane flanked by Plane trees, a species related to our American Sycamore. If France has a national tree, I would bet that it is the Plane tree, since it is everywhere along the Canal du Midi and the south of France to provide shade.

I encounter a young mother with baby and four dogs circling the stroller. Fergus made a mad dash to add to the excitement, and by the time dogs and baby were sorted out the sun had started to rise above the hillside. Amazing rays of sunshine fanned out to the ground, shining on the moisture in the air. For a moment I thought I was in the Great Smokey Mountains.

My understanding of the water cycle is pretty limited, so I had to rely on Doug (the answer man) for some clarification, but these vaporous clouds were ethereal. The ground is saturated from non-stop rains of late, then yesterday's 95 degree F heat(@ 33 degree C). It's created a perfect combination. Warm air can hold a lot of moisture, but as the temperature drops at night it loses it's capacity to hold the moisture which condenses on the ground in the form of dew. There is soooo much dew that it is producing tremendous misty clouds when the sun hits it. Please, anybody with a better explanation, step forward.

Fergus heads off into some of the fields, lost in the grasses. Le tournesol, the sunflowers, do not fool me this year. I recognize the stalk and leaves, and know that before we leave many of these fields will be blankets of brilliant yellow. We look down on the village of Leran, shrouded in mist, and across to the Pyrenees with barely a hint of snow remaining. Everything is quiet. But in two weeks, the Marche Nocture Leran, Friday night town-wide dinners begin, and in mid-July Le Tour de France zooms through in nearby Lavelanet and Chalabre. Nothing will be quiet then.

We cut off from the road onto a two-track through some fields, past the camping-park and down along the river. It runs fast and high and clear. Last summer this path was easily crossed over on boulders, but this year they are underwater. The water is cool and refreshing, even in the early morning. If you gotta have a morning ritual, mine's not too bad.

Back in the Saddle Again

Nancy and Fergus relax after a nice walk in the countryside.

Yes, we've arrived back in France and are struggling with the everyday activities of trying to get the house back into a livable state. We drove from Paris in a cool, drizzling rainstorm, with Fergus sitting, as much as possible on our laps even though he had much of the back of the car to himself. I guess "clingy" would describe the way he was feeling. "Don't make me stay for eleven hours in a small cage inside a long, dark aluminum tube that vibrates and shakes ever again," Fergus reportedly said.

We put the key in the lock and opened the door to 14 Rue du Four and stepped inside. It was cold and dark........and damp. There were dead bugs littering the floor and cobwebs everywhere a spider could manage to go. We flung open the windows and shutters, turned on the water, filled the water heater, turned on the electricity, turned on the water heater and it began to seem like home again. We soon found things that we thought we had lost or didn't remember that we owned. The plastic tub of wine bottles upstairs were unfrozen and unbroken, praise be to the wine gods.

We're adjusting now to the weather. Today, Saturday is the third day of lovely sunshine. However, it comes with a price. Apparently, the last two months were somewhat rainy and gloomy. With the warm weather and sunshine comes the dreaded heat and humidity. Since we are used to something like 6 to 10% humidity in the desert of Utah, we're struggling with, and soaked with........sweat.

Fergus is adjusting to the fact he can't go outside on his own recognisance. He no longer has a dog door to go in and out of a hundred times a day, and he no longer has his own fenced yard. He must be escorted to the bathroom facilities around the corner. Our second day here, he made a leap, unbeknown to us, out the first floor window and took himself for a short walking tour of Leran. Luckily, our friend Billy found him at the bar and escorted him back unharmed.

We've visited the bar, Le Rendezvous, with it's new owners Marek and Shirley. What a glorious change. It's open almost all the time you would expect a bar/cafe to be open, and run professionally. We've touched base with a bunch of old friends from last summer. We've been to the building materials outlet for some floor joist, metal studs, this and that, to begin our bathroom building project. We've gotten the tires on our bikes aired up and ready to ride. We've stocked up on some groceries. We've been to Pamiers and had the phone hooked up again, and today the Internet service was turned on. We're officially back in business, I guess.

Return to "North of Andorra" Headquarters

We have no internet acess yet but here is an update on our travels.

We have arrived in Leran, but first let me back up and explain the last part of the journey. We spent a couple of days with my niece’s Anna and Katie in Burlington, Vermont. We had built in an extra day to account for car troubles or the unforeseen, like flooding in Iowa. But the time was not needed so we did our laundry instead and prepared for our flight. Fergus and Ajax became fast friends and rasseled for two days with barely a break.


We headed out to Montreal, Kate’s car loaded to the gunwales with a dog crate on the roof, four adults and one dog and plenty of baggage in the cabin. All went well. We found the shipping point for Fergus with plenty of time to spare, in fact we arrived an hour early, five hours before the flight, instead of the four advised. But eventually we got the crate put together, Fergus in it, paperwork in order (always, there is paperwork), and then it was time to say goodbye to Fergus and leave. Not having done this before, and not knowing when, if ever we would see him again, it was a bit emotional, but Kate, Anna, Nancy and I said “Bon Voyage” and “Au Revoir” and off we went to the Zoom Airlines terminal.



Anna and Kate then said goodbye to Nancy and me and off they went to see what two attractive, single young ladies could see in the big city of Montreal, Canada. They had booked a place for one night and were working on French translations of: “Hey, Sailor” and “Buy me a drink, big boy?”




We endured the four hour wait for our flight and then seven hours on the plane and we were in Paris. (May I say that somehow, the Canadians have done airport security just right. They have found the perfect balance between safety and the absurdity of inspecting one’s shoes). Zoom is no frills, none. No magazines, no booze, no first class. They have what you need; a meal, something to drink, seatbelts, two movies, a couple of pilots and stewards and not much else. We had booked extra-legroom seats, which turned out to be right next to the door. Nancy and I were the first ones to step off the airplane, about the first ones to get our baggage and about the first ones through the French customs. This consisted of two Douanes officials giving us a glance without breaking off their conversation.


Then began the difficult part of finding out where Fergus was. We drove around the airport looking for the freight area, not knowing for sure if we were in the right place. Sunday morning is rather quiet in the Paris airport realm. With difficulty, we found the freight area, then the address, and then our poor French led us on a wild goose chase from facility to facility, Nancy and I growing more and more frantic as each one turned up empty. I began to despair of getting our dog out of hock. It began to remind me of finding old Smokey in Barcelona. Finally we found the correct freight terminal, then the “porte bleu”, contacted the right person, paid the right amount and were told we could take Fergus. They would not allow us, however, to walk over to the crate, which we could see, open the door and walk Fergus out to the car. It had to be transported by fork lift the thirty feet to where we stood behind a yellow line.



Then a long drive (not as long as the one from Moab to Burlington) but long nonetheless in our jet-lagged state. We lucked out and found a beautiful old hotel and had a nice dinner in the little bitty town of Vatan near Limoges. We picked up Smokey at Bill and Sally’s, and Smokey seems to be in fighting trim. Bill gave it a wash, the only one it’s had since we owned it. It’s good to be back. The house seems to be in fine shape, with the addition of several feet of cobwebs and numerous dead flies and bees. All is well. Vive la France.

On the Road Without Jack Kerouac

We followed a cold front across the country, from Moab to Burlington, Vermont. Everywhere we have been has been nice and cool. Ahead of us, and behind us, has been a certain amount of turmoil. In Nebraska, we saw buildings, trees and billboards torn apart by a tornado. In Iowa we saw evidence of too much rain and we've seen news stories since of flooding across the central part of the state.



Nancy took care of business in Lincoln with the United States Department of Agriculture, Animal Plant Health Inspection Service. Fergus has gotten U.S. government approval to go to France. We crossed into Canada and got a few hours of practice reading things in French. Deja vu, n'est pas? Fergus was unimpressed with the effort it took to get him back and forth across the international border, in what I guess you could call a trial run.



Gas prices are at an all time high. We are paying about the same amount to gas up as I used to pay for a month's rent on a one bedroom apartment. Consequently, you might think the roads would be empty of cars. You would be wrong.



Today is a rest day, the first day in five days we haven't been on the road. We're holed up in my neice Anna's house doing laundry and making last minute preparations for the flight. In short, all is well. No automobile breakdowns, no surprises, no catastrophes, knock on wood. It appears our airline is still in business, which probably means we'll be flying out on schedule.

I Said I Loved What?

Somewhere in a long forgotten post I said I loved the word itinerary because it indicated travel plans were afoot. Well, I may have spoken prematurely. Our upcoming itinerary is rather daunting. Here's where we think we'll be spending the next several nights after we leave Moab on Sunday morning the eighth of June: (1)Denver, Colorado at my sister Peggy's for one night; (2)Lincoln, Nebraska where we have an appointment with the USDA regarding taking an animal to France; (3)Merrillville, Indiana where we'll have dinner with Nancy's brother and family; (4)near Toronto, Ontario, Canada; (5 and 6)two nights in Burlington, Vermont where my two nieces, Anna and Katie are living; (7)one night somewhere over the north Atlantic, probably sleepless or nearly sleepless; (8)and perhaps one night somewhere in France between Paris and Leran. Whew! That's what I call an itinerary.





I know. I know. It seems like a long, boring journey, but there are some high points I'm looking forward to that you, perhaps, have not considered. I get to see two thirds of all my sisters in Denver, and their families, drink some beer and wine and maybe have a barbecue. If that is not enough, then a visit to the USDA facility in Lincoln. Almost all my life I have been wanting to visit this magical place and I know you have dreamed about it too. I think there will be several posts, perhaps with pictures, regarding the place where some of the greatest agricultural minds this country has ever produced toil daily in relative obscurity. Following that, I get to visit with Nancy's brother and sister-in-law and not have to go to a funeral. I have met Jim two or three times in 26 years, generally because of a funeral and always in Merrillville. I can't think of any high points regarding staying overnight in Toronto, but I'm sure there are some, and if there are we will let you know. And lastly, but not leastly, a visit with fully one third of all my nieces in Burlington.





An itinerary like that would be the entire summer vacation for some. But not for us. We pay a brief visit to Pierre Trudeau Airport in Montreal, and then on to la belle France.