Musicians Here and There

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

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?

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

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

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

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