Musique of the Ages

"Sweet sounds, oh beautiful music, do not cease
Reject me not into the world again.
With you alone is excellence and peace
Mankind made plausible, his purpose plain."
--Edna St. Vincent Millay (via my fallible memory)

We spent Sunday evening bathed in the glow of the setting sun on the cream colored walls of the 17th century Chateau de Pellonniere, gazing up at massive rough hewn beams, enveloped in the resonating harmonies of the clavichord. The occasion was a recital of music by Jacques Duphly (1715-1789), a noted composer who was a native of La Perche and a contemporary of Mozart.

There was a full house in the music room at the Chateau, and Elisabeth Joye, an intense young Frenchwoman with snowy skin, henna hair and the eyes of another century, performed admirably. Most of us were transported by the music, with the exception of (or maybe including)the tiny old lady next to me, who slept soundly through the first half of the program, leaning heavily against me and smiling in her sleep like some ancient powdery angel. During the second half, she awoke and chatted in an animated fashion with the ladies around her, to the consternation of some of the prissier audience members.

As the breeze carried bits of birdsong throught the windows at intermission, I thought about the fact that this music, though it seems genteel to us now, was revolutionary for its time - breaking out of the strict rules of the Baroque, led by that wild child Wolfgang Amadeus. In fact, those were revolutionary times; the French people were fomenting their own rebellion and the British were dealing with their feisty colonies. Perhaps Thomas Jefferson or Benjamin Franklin, those old Francophiles, had the opportunity to hear M. Duphly's music in a setting such as this on one of their missions to France... and perhaps somehow the music helped to make their cause more plausible, their purpose plain.

Dick is a Flickr Slut

It all began when we were staying with our friend Pam in California, and she casually mentioned that a friend of hers had writen an article about Flickr, the photo posting site, and the fact that professional photographers were using the site as a way to get their work out there for viewing... and several have made a success out of selling images from Flickr to stock photo houses, agencies, and others who use them for commercial purposes.

She thoughtfully forwarded the article to us, and we read it after we'd been in France for a couple of weeks. Dick was intrigued by it, so we set up a Flickr account. (Note: not as easy as it sounds - this is not a user friendly site, though it pretends to be, with cutesy copy and perky icons)... we set up all our Back In The Good Old World images on Flickr so our friends who wished to could view the photos in a larger format.

THEN - Cybermagic struck!A woman in England who apparently loves Wellies saw Dick's rainy day photo of M's boots in the doorway, which she marked as a favorite. Other people chose it as well, and the comments began rolling in... and Dick was hooked. He's been in a frenzy to appease his Wellie-loving public's appetite for more. I now look over at him at mealtimes and he has a faraway look in his eyes - says things like "what about Wellies in the sky?" or "Wellies on the Run?" Having lived through these obsessions before, I didn't think much of it until I found myself posing int he back garden, per my previous post, or crouching in the grass, bugs crawling over me, nettles stinging my ankles, shooting up at a pair of Wellie boots as Dick dangled them overhead. Since then, we have taken Wellies on outings and posed them in various spots around town, much to the amusement and bafflement of the townspeople.

This shameless pandering to his fan base has now caused many of these shots to become "favorites" on Flickr, so I thought I'd share them with you here. Or you can view them at flickr.com/dickandcathy/photos
But be careful... you just might become a you-know-what...

Mont Saint Michel - An International Treasure

Legend has it that in the year 708, the Bishop of Avranche received a visitation from St. Michel, the warrior angel who protects the French nation. The angel told the Bishop to build a sanctuary in his honor at the top of a pyramid-shaped peak in the middle of a bay on the Normandy coast. The story of how this was accomplished – over a period that lasted from the year 1,000 to the present – is astonishing.

A traveler’s first view of the Abbaye is glimpsed across the flat green fields, dotted with sheep – its monumental shape and shining spire look like a visitation from another world… as you come closer, you see that it’s not a spacecraft after all, but an enormous granite fortification that rises above the tides of the bay. In its many lives, Mont Saint Michel has been a pilgrimage site, a Benedictine Abbey, an impregnable stronghold that held off the British during the Hundred Years War, a prison after the French Revolution, and finally a French national monument and UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Lovers of architecture will recognize the Romanesque arches, the Gothic columns and flying buttresses – it’s possible to see examples of architecture through the centuries as you wander through the building. What gave me chills was to imagine what it would be like to be a King of France, indulging himself in front of the roaring fire in the banquet room… a monk studying texts or meditating in the cloister…or a prisoner doing manual labor as punishment for his political beliefs, gazing longingly out the windows across the water. They have all walked where we were walking – the history of Western Civilization in one awe-inspiring package.

That's Entertainment!

Last week and weekend was full of fun stuff... at the beginning of the week, we created our own entertainment by staging photographs in the back yard. Being the wife of a photographer has its drawbacks - such as posing in my underpants and tee shirt, wearing M's wellie boots, in the back garden. I had to balance on one leg as if running, hanging onto a bush for support - you can see the result at left. This was especially scintillating since people around here are not formal - if they want to come visit you, they just walk into the house or the garden - wherever you happen to be. In fact, during last visit our elderly neighbor from down the street came over while we were working on a re-finishing project - gave us some loud advice in French (of which we understood two words) and then left... imagine if he'd stumbled onto this project! Oh lala!

Luckily, the professional entertainment kicked in before we went completely bonkers. Friday was the circus - we were as excited as a couple of kids - in fact, we were the only adults without children in attendance. Our enthusiasm was a bit dampened by the crabby circus attendant, who looked at Dick's camera, shook his finger in our faces, and said, "NO PHOTO, NO PHOTO, NO PHOTO!" Our guess is that they have had some trouble with the animal rights people, and we definitely looked out of place in the small town crowd of moms and kids... at any rate, the circus was awesome - jugglers, balancing acts (the amazing glass pyramid!), goats, camels, llamas, and ponies doing cool tricks - and they were very affectionate with their trainers. Dick managed to snap one illict photo at intermission (see left).

Then came the vide-grenier (literally, "cleaning the attic") which is a flea market held on this occasion in St. Martin de Vieux Belleme, just a kilometer or so from our house. In addition to eating, drinking, a lot of good-natured conversation, pony rides for the kids... there were some cool antiques for sale. And the village is picture perfect - if you didn't know better, you'd think the Disney company had been at it again...

The Fete de Musique was held all weekend all over the country - what a cool idea. Free music everywhere you go - I understand that in Paris they play music all night at the park surrounding the Eiffel Tower. We had a lovely local accordion band that played the sweetest possible music under the trees, with the late afternoon sunlight dappling down... and then for a something completely different, a screaming rock band at the Cafe du Midi, singing no songs in English except one that consisted of a single line "I'm on a highway to hell!" We sipped our wine, smiled demurely, and slipped away to listen to more accordions.

Piece de la resistance of the weekend was an overnight visit from our old friends Jim and Sarah, who have been traveling around France and spent their last night with us before leaving for Amsterdam. They thoughtfully brought several luscious bottles of wine, so a good time was had by all!

Today we're off to Mt. St. Michel - we figure we'd better see if before high season hits and every tourist in Europe decides to stop by. A bientot!

Village Life

I grew up in a small farm town - St. Johns, Michigan - and lived there until I was 16. Memories of St. Johns come back to me when I spend time here in Gue de la Chaine, because the kids here have the good luck, as I did, to grow up with simple pleasures like:

* Air that always smells sweet. Like grass, or hay, or flowers, or lavender, or rain...

* Friends that they've known since birth. They have a multitude of brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas watching over them. "It takes a village" has become a cliche, but it's true...

* Proximity to the natural world. They can spend hours lying in the grass, watching shining black beetles or fluffy little sparrows hopping... and play the game of "how still can you be? How close can you get?" Their hands get used to the stiffness of horsehair, the fluffiness of feathers, and finding treasures like polished chestnuts in the woods or rocks sparkling underwater at the lake.

* Feeling a part of the community, completely and irrevocably. As a child in a small town, you know your role in each event, from weddings, funerals and holidays to musical events and charity fundraisers. The year goes by in dependable cycles, based on traditional celebrations...

* Learning from some of the same teachers who taught your parents... and sometimes call you by your parent's name. I had a geometry teacher who called me "Jeannie" throughout my entire sophomore year of high school.

And the irony of it all is that most small town kids can't wait to get away from all the stifling closeness, the fact that everybody knows what you're doing, and get to where the action is - to the city, to a larger life - as did I. And now that I'm older, that slow village life, full of small pleasures, seems so appealing.

Food, Glorious Food

If you've been following us for a while, you know that an inordinate number of posts are about food... but what could be more important? Especially here in the beautiful, bountiful countryside where we eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at home and the available ingredients are so stunningly good - our lives have slowed down to the point that just the simple act of making a meal is like a meditation.

However, really silly things continue to happen when we do venture out to eat. Interestingly enough, the worst snafus have come through the ordering of a simple Steak Hache - a hamburger! Dick ordered a Steak Hache au Cheval (with an egg on top) in Paris and our waitress (who was British, by the way - no language barrier) decided to bring it to him without the egg because she didn't think he knew what he was ordering. Yesterday at lunch when we were out shopping in Mamers, he ordered Steak Hache Sandwich avec Frites - burger and fries, right? If you look at the photo, you'll see what he got - a baguette full of chopped steak and fries stuffed right inside with the meat - no plate - just set down right on the place mat - who knew?

We all know Dick is the true talent in this family, but his talent doesn't extend to ordering meals. In an instance eerily similar to the Mamers story above - he ordered French Toast for breakfast in Laos and got a giant plate of fries - I mean a MOUNTAIN... and in one of the great steakhouses of the world in Buenos Aires, he didn't order a steak, he ordered a Mixed Grill Criolla (the Irish have a phrase for this - "fookin' eejit"). The Mixed Grill included such unsavory bits as intestines that hadn't been completely cleaned out... you get the picture.

Meanwhile, everybody eats well in this little Eden of ours... sheep, cows, even camels grazing on the Champ de Foire, because the circus has come to town! We went to check out the circus while they were setting up yesterday, and the circus cook was merrily slitting the throats of chickens when we walked by her truck. Bon Appetit!

Summer is on the way...

I know this because every day something else bursts into bloom... the tomatoes are super ripe at the market... it stays light until 10:00 at night...the garden furniture is out... and because there are posters for summer events springing up around the countryside as well.

This coming weekend alone, we have the Summer Musicale in Vieux Belleme on Saturday and the Country Dancing Festival (!) on Sunday. "Country Dancing" doesn't mean a rustic clog dance - the poster shows photos of local folk packed tightly into cowboy duds, boots, hats and all. We'll report in post-event, so stay tuned.

Meanwhile, on the music scene, we spent a delightful evening last Friday at Le Jazz Club Reveillon (also known as Chez Bob). Run by an eccentric British couple, Bob and Shirley, it's a kind of jazzy dinner club set inside a 16th century farmhouse, the bar jammed with vacationing English people, but also plenty of locals and Parisian weekenders, all a little sunburned, conversing in multiple languages, and flushed from wine and excitement.

The entertainment on Friday night was a Dixieland group from Paris - quite good. They covered every old standard from "Georgia Brown" to "Basin Street Blues", which felt somewhat full circle to us, as we began this journey in New Orleans. Turns out that it really is full circle, as a number of the original Acadians - the French who emigrated to Canada and then moved south to New Orleans, where they were called Cajuns - are originally from La Perche. Accordions, violins and a Cajun beat can be heard in the traditional music CD's that they sell at the Belleme market... and you can see the connection in the rapt faces of the audience at Le Jazz Club, as they sing along to "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans". As Satchmo said, it's a wonderful world.

PHOTO ALERT - Revised

If any of you would like to view Dick's photos in a larger format and higher resolution, he now has them posted on flickr. These are slightly different than the blog photos, all though some are the same... the photos on flickr are his best "art" as opposed to blog illustration.

To reach the file, go to www.flickr.com/dickandcathy/photos. If for some reason this doesn't work, search for dixpix2009 on Google. Let us know if you have problems... thanks!

Weasels Ate My Underpants

I spaced out and left my favorite black bikinis on the clothesline overnight (I can’t stand those g-string things, but that’s a story for another day). When I went out to the garden to retrieve them in the morning, they were lying in the wet grass… I picked them up, then made a sound something like “gak!”… and dropped them again. My favorite undies were peppered with tiny teeth holes, and covered with a weird snotty animal substance.

Now, this wasn’t as scary as negotiating with machete-wielding 14-year-olds in New Guinea, or being dragged by an 80 pound rickshaw driver through a Maoist demonstration on the border between India and Nepal… it wasn’t as exciting either, but these and the weasel experience did have something in common.

They all remind me of an important lesson of travel – that it’s good to be taken out of your comfort zone and given the freedom to be a dork. It takes so much effort to be cool… it’s a privilege to be out in the great unknown where you’re often unintentionally dorky… you can’t speak the language properly (I once requested a wakeup call in Spain by asking “Please attack me in the morning” – dork!). The first time we went to the grocery in France, we didn’t know we had to weigh our produce ourselves and bring our own shopping bags until we got to the checkout – dorks! Dick’s bag didn’t show up in New Guinea, so he had to tour around in borrowed grey sweatpants several sizes too small for him – dork!

On this subject, I found this in my meditation book today:
“When we first contemplate the adventures of the world’s great explorers, we are struck with a feeling of the mystery and drama of discovery. We might picture them venturing into uncharted waters or exploring strange, new lands, but we tend not to think about the countless daily hardships and inconveniences – the mosquitoes, the rain, the boredom, the bad food. Yet that is all part of the journey as well. In the same way, the countless irritations and difficulties that present themselves in the course of practice are part of the extraordinary exploration of the nature of our own lives. It is easy to get so caught up in the details of our experience that we may lose touch with the vast scope of the context in which we are working.”

Yup – in other words,it’s all part of the adventure. And it’s OK to be a little bored, too, or sick, because that’s real life… sometimes weasels eat your underpants.

Rainy Day Entertainment

Rain, rain went away... but not until after blessing us with three days of chill, drizzly weather - felt like Northern California! Of course, no place could be this lushly green without getting some serious rain, but we're glad it's over. Here's how we kept ourselves entertained:

As promised, we headed to the Snail Farm, which was charming as a snail farm can possibly be. Phillippe, the owner, couldn't have been more friendly and funny or more enthusiastic about his little gray charges. We learned so many interesting facts about snails, such as:

* Snail sex lasts six hours. Phillipe claims this is normal in France.

* Snails have thousands of tiny litle razor sharp tongues, so they can chew up practically anything - rocks, steel, plastic.

* Snail slime is so tough and thick that snails can literally walk on the edges of sharp knives without being cut.

* Snail slime is also used as a medicine - it's the main ingredient in a lung decongestant, and is being researched as a cancer cure - the slime seems to isolate the cancer cells and not allow them to grow.

P's snails are also a bit tastier than those from other parts of the world because he raises a medium size snail (as opposed to petit gris) that matures more quickly so it can be eaten while it's young and juicy. And because he raises his snails on natural food, you can be sure that you're not eating a snail that has grown up, say, in the Ukraine, eating Chernobyl-irradiated rocks. We truly enjoyed our afternoon, and it would have been perfect if only our crack photo staff had remembered to put a card in his camera... unforunately, no photos.

However, we do have photos of the Cidrerie where we went for a tour and tasting yesterday - another charming and beautiful place, where Cider and Calvados are made in the traditional way. The apples are all locally grown, some on the farm where the cidrerie is located, and some on adjoining farms. The apples are then pressed and held in stainless steel tanks for cider fermentation. To make Calvados (fire water!) they take the cider and perform alambic distillation, then ferment in oak barrels to create a smooth and award-winning Calva - perfect for a cold and rainy night.

But today, the sun is out - so off to market we go!

Hommage a les Liberateurs

Yesterday was momentous for more than one reason - for the tennis fanatics among us, it was the day that Roger Federer won his rightful place in the pantheon of greats. We watched the match in a tiny little Tabac in Belleme, sipping a glass of vin rouge, rain drizzling down, everyone pounding on the bar at match point... and then the lovely sight of a beaming, benevolent Andre Agassi passing Fed the cup.

For the wider world, yesterday was the 65th anniversary of D Day and the Normandy landings; our elegant President was here to commemorate the occasion. There were signs everywhere for the celebration of "Hommage a les Liberateurs", which is heartwarming. It's nice to think that in some parts of the world, Americans are still thought of as heroes. The Obama family is certainly beloved in France - you can't pick up a magazine without finding an Obama photo spread.

Earlier in the week, we spent an idyllic day at the Chateau de Carrouges - just a few miles from here, northwest of Alencon. First we had a "picque-nicque" of fresh bread, charcuterie, cheese, cherries and madeleines... then a lazy walk through the gardens in the sun... then a tour of the Chateau in English with a very bright and perky French guide.

The story is that the Chateau was built for a "confidant" of the King back in the 14th Century. By the size and grandeur of the place, I'm guessing that "confidant" meant "knows where all the bodies are buried". The grand old place stayed in the confidant's family until they ran out of male heirs, and it was on to another family through an arranged marriage to the only surviving female heir. A portrait of the happy couple hangs in the banquet room - he's handsome in a devilish kind of way, and she looks like she bites the heads off chickens... a real estate deal, not a love match. Nice house, though.

Tennis in Gue de la Chaine has become a bit more dangerous than in the past - the collie dog belonging to Madame Souchet, from whom you have to pick up the tennis court key, has gotten older and crankier since our last visit. You get a definite adrenalin rush sprinting from Madame Souchet's from door to the garden gate with collie snapping at your bum - good warmup!

Expected to rain tomorrow, so we'll take advantage of that to make an outing to the snail farm - great weather for it... 'til then, au revoir.

News from the Sleepy Countryside

I'm just getting over a jet lag cold, so I'm sitting outside our charming little cottage re-creating a scene from European films - the one where the frail and elderly person (that would be me) sits catatonically in the sun in the bountiful green garden of the sanitarium, surrounded by birdsong.

The birds here in Normandy are profuse and musical - I hear sounds that I've heard nowhere else, from the easily recognizable (the cuckoo - duh) to intricate melodies that never sound the same twice.... it's magical.

We were certainly busy today doing nothing - here's the rundown:

8:00 Roll over and decide that since the sun has been shining in the window since 6:00, it's time to get up. We always know what time it is, since the church bell in the village tolls every 15 minutes - such a reassuring sound. Make coffee, heat milk, warm croissants, cut melon, open yogurt. We suffered a minor crisis this week, as madame who runs the bakery in Gue de la Chaine is on vacation until Sunday -as a result of which we have to eat croissants and baguettes that were baked the day before, rather than walking down the street and getting them straight from the oven... the things we have to endure.

9:30 After lazy, leisurely breakfast, get dressed and take the car a couple of kilometers to Belleme, where it's market day! No one recognizes us yet, since we haven't been around long, but in the past we've been acknowledged by the townspeople after we've been in town a week or so... usually because we're the only people who ever use the town tennis courts. We buy a kilo of fresh spring peas, 4 of the smallest, sweetest, most delicious melons on earth (the lady at the market threw in an extra one for me because it had a blemish on the side) and pork tenderloin.

12:00 Shell peas. This has been one of my favorite tasks since childhood, but it's taking a little longer today since Dick has taken to photographing all our food - he can't resist because everything is so beautiful.

1:00 Soup for lunch, made with local sausage and veggies - of course, we have photos of that, too! Then a nap - it's been an exhausting day so far.

2:30 Depart for the Controle Technique in Mortagne to get M&J's car registered. Controle Technique is kind of a combo road test/smog test that one's car must pass each year. When we went to the CT office a couple of days ago, the gentleman at the desk told me that "we must make a rendezvouz". I thought "Well, he's really not my type, but this is France, after all, and if that's what I have to do to get the car registered..." Then realized that a rendez - vouz is an appointment. Whew! I made a rendez-vouz for today, and here we are. My potential date fills out a computer form, drives the car, looks under the hood - all the while Dick is pacing around the office muttering "this sucker better pass" - dreading the thought of having to go to the local garage and explain any needed repairs. But no worries - Monsieur returns, all smiles, with the appropriate stickers, handshakes all around. 65 Euros later, we're on the road again!

4:00 Check email and French Open Draw - I can hardly stand to look at that awful Robin Soderling's name. I can't believe he knocked Rafa out of the tournament -too upsetting, must have a drink.

5:00 Wine in the garden and back to the sanitarium scene. Sheep next door are bleating away - must be dinner time - and the white cattle out in the pasture look as lazy as I do. That's all for now... must rest.

Roland Garros - Le Grand Slam du Monde

We’ve had some connection issues out here in the countryside, but we’re online again – hooray! So we can finally tell all our tennis-loving friends about our two amazing days at The French Open…

Five Ways to Know You’re at Roland Garros

1. The Red Clay. We’ve all seen it on TV, in Tennis Magazine, in countless photos… but nothing prepares you for the richness of the courts’ color, especially since many players this year are wearing vivid pink (vamos, Rafa!), turquoise and yellow, which look impossibly bright against the red-orange terre bateau.

2. The Fashion. During these early days of the tournament, many in the crowd are Parisians taking the day off for an outing to watch Le Tennis – or to watch other people watching them... Of course, the ladies are wearing skirts that either fit like a second skin or look like a kind of bubble, painfully high stilettos with teeny weeny pinchy toes (so practical for strolling the grounds) and exquisite accessories. The gentlemen? They’re decked out in those Italian suits that appear to be one or two sizes too small, with pastel silk shirts and perfect haircuts. For the rest of us – jeans and tee shirts, accessorized with a tres chic sweatshirt and baseball cap.

3. The Smoking. What could be more refreshing than a quick cigarette between sets? According to the fans at Roland Garros, nothing! Dick was sitting in the stands having a cigarette between sets at the Davydenko-Wawrinka singles match, and the gentleman in front of us kept turning around and squirming… I was mortified, thinking that he was going to ask Dick to put it out – but au contraire! He just wanted to bum a smoke…

4. The Food. I wasn’t expecting chili dogs and tortilla chips, but the cuisine served at Le Jardin Roland Garros exceeded all expectations: on Friday, we enjoyed salmon brochettes, vegetable mélange, rice and an arugula salad, accompanied by a nice glass of vin blanc, d’accord.

5. The Charm. Although it was incredibly crowded on both days (especially for those of us who only held outer court tickets) the mood was wonderfully festive. Clowns dressed like tennis players entertained us while we waited in lines, people from all over the world helped each other to stand up on chairs so we could collectively gawk at the big name players during warm-up, and the staff at every concession stand and boutique could not have been more perky – every transaction ended with a cheery “Merci, madame – bonne journee!”

In short, it was wonderful fun. And – oh, yeah – the tennis! We focused on doubles, because we could watch the best doubles players in the world, sitting as close as if we were at home – Bob Bryan and Lisel Huber (#1 male/female doubles players in the world), as well as Lisa Raymond, Rennae Stubbs, Daniela Hantuchova, Ai Sugiyama, Nestor/Zimanjic (seeded right behind the Bryans in this tournament) and a match between Cuevas/Horna and Knowles/Melzer that ended in a dive to the clay for the winning point – it was featured on French TV for days!

And everyone’s into it - you can’t pass a brasserie, bistro, café, tabac, or restaurant that doesn’t have tennis on TV. When we got to our hotel on Tuesday, there was even a board up in the lobby listing the day’s matches – and a betting pool where guests could make a wager on the winners. Everyone is talking tennis – and especially about the French players, of whom Parisians are so proud… our waiter the first night said, “Jo Willy – mon garcon!” No matter what the language, tennis is an international subculture that transcends - and makes us all, for a few shining days, compatriots.