June 30, 2013
The Feast of Saint Peter
Mèze
Today, all over the Roman Catholic world, it is the feast of Saint Peter, the fisherman. All over France's ports, small and large, there are Masses followed by processions and a blessing of the boats.
Mèze is no different, and the day harks back to the time long ago when Mèze was a tiny fishing village on the Étang de Thau. In honor of the Saint, the first Pope and keeper of the keys of heaven's gate, the Mèzois open the Chapel of the Penitents and have Mass said nearby, rather than at Saint Hilaire near the City Hall.
The band from the village of Villeveyrac, a few kilometers away will play for the Mass and the procession, which may explain why the Mass will not be said in the chapel, but in a large space adjoining. The members of the band are dressed in the uniform of village bands all over the Mediterranean, be they Spanish, French, Italian or Greek: white shirt, black pants, instruments strapped to the shirt to enable the musicians to play while they process. The orchestra is called La Jeune France, although most of its members look pretty long in the tooth. The orchestra's brass and winds bleat roughly, and the snare and bass drums keep rhythm better suited to a dirge. They are not and could never be mistaken for a professional orchestra, but the sound of their saxophones, cornets, piccolos and drums is strangely endearing. The musicians are volunteers; they probably work as masons or at other trades most of the time. Two local dignitaries are in suits: they only assume the banners of office for the procession; otherwise they are indistinguishable from the congregation of Saint Hilaire of Mèze of the parish of Our Lady of the Smile. At the back of the benches set up for the Mass, a church fair offers handmade aprons and knitted items along with bric-a-brac, for sale by the ladies of the parish.
Father Bertrand Lacombe, the vicar-general of the archdiocese of Montpellier, is the celebrant. His homily speaks of the personal experience of God, be it in contemplation of the beauty of the Étang de Thau, or when together with those who are part of the community that is the village of Mèze, or in a personal relationship of particular meaning. Such moments, he says, are sources of strength meant to help us through the difficult moments. He compares God to a GPS, and admits he has one --although he did not need it to get to Mèze. Father Bertrand, a youngish and thoughtful-looking man in his early fifties, I guess, speaks a beautiful French in a soft voice. He is accompanied by the two priests who serve at Saint Hilaire. Interestingly, the taller of the two (whom I saw last Sunday at Saint Hilaire) has shaved off his moustache and long hair for the vicar's visit. All three are dressed in bright red vestments, which reflect the sun on this gorgeous day.
The Mass over, four young and robust men in dark bermudas and t-shirts make their way to the carved wooden boat with the figure of Saint Peter in the middle that has been placed to the left of the altar. The orchestra recesses through a back way and takes the lead, followed by Saint Peter, the priests and the faithful. The procession, about one hundred people in all, walks through the oldest quarter of Mèze, where streets are narrow and the iron balconies are full of spectators of the procession.
Finally, the procession reaches the harbor and Saint Peter is put aboard a boat, along with the three priests. On a small barge, La Jeune France plays as Saint Peter is transported to the middle of the harbor. Once there, the wooden figure is lowered into the water and Father Bertrand blesses the port and the boats who make their home there. After an appropriate interval, Saint Peter is returned to the launch, brought back to land and carried back to the Chapel of the Penitents, where he will rest until next June.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
June 29, 2013
Sarkozy-Juppé Redux?
The French political scene has been stabilized by the victory last Sunday of Jean-Louis Costes, the UMP (Union Pour Un Mouvement Populaire) deputy who defeated the FN (Front National) candidate over the seat that used to Jerome Cahuzac's. Cahuzac, the PS (Parti Socialiste) minister in the cabinet of President François Hollande, was forced to resign for having a Swiss bank account, legal under French law, but not under PS rules. Cahuzac, who was Mayor of Villeneuve-sur-Lot before becoming a député, repeatedly denied the existence of the account, both publicly and to intimates, a posture which undoubtedly gave greater force to the clamor. Having come clean, he still considered himself politically viable, a measure of either his arrogance or self-delusion. An inquiry directed, in part, at determining why Swiss authorities released the damning information, is in progress, and has caught in its net Cahuzac's former wife, a pale blonde beauty described alternatively as "cold" or "shy". The former Madame Cahuzac's prior denials of knowledge of the existence of the account lack a certain credibility in some circles: she is dermatologist who specializes in hair transplants, not an average housewife. Her former husband was a plastic surgeon until his interest in politics took precedence over his medical career.
The victory of the UMP was in good part the result of the temporary pact between the UMP and the PS; the latter ordered the losing candidate, Bernard Barral, to campaign with Costes to defeat the FN. The FN has been sidelined for the moment, and with François Hollande a millstone around the neck of the PS, the UMP can turn to what it knows best: infighting over who will be its leader and candidate for the presidency in 2017. All of which has the French press enjoying a field day over the possible return to public life of Nicolas Sarkozy, the Richard Nixon of France.
The comparisons between Sarkozy and Nixon are not ill-founded. While Nixon was dogged by his lies about Watergate and resigned, and Sakozy, merely defeated in his re-election bid, both inspired comparable dislike among their respective voters. Nixon and Sarkozy both trained as lawyers and have Machiavellian reputations. In the French press it is now said that Sarkozy watched his loyal Prime Minister, François Fillon, and the General Secretary of the UMP, Jean-François Copé, duke it out in a leadership contest last November, a duel that left both men badly damaged and which has paved the way for Sarkozy to return to public life. Specifically, Copé declared himself elected with 50.3% of the vote of party members, Fillon alleged fraud and asserted his own victory, Copé made counter-charges. Not a pretty picture.
In the aftermath of the débacle, speculation that, having sowed dissension in the first place, Sarkozy would now conquer, was widely bruited. Sarkozy's rejected his financier brother's invitation to work with him drumming up business with Qatar so he could keep his options open (French voters would hold the money to be made against Sarkozy's return --c.f., The French Are Funny About Money, an earlier post). Sarkozy is also said to have turned aside his mediagenic wife's entreaties to forget politics and concentrate on life outside politics, including raising the daughter born to Carla Bruni, the wealthy Italian model and singer who is Sarkozy's third wife.
From an office on rue Meromesnil in Paris, "Sarko" continues to meet visitors interested in his and their political future: for example, Jean-Michel Costes, whose little star twinkles after the victory in Villeneuve-sur-Lot --if only for a day. Sarkozy loyalists speak of the inevitability of his return: With François Hollande's public approval ratings after one year in office at historic lows, and four years more to go, the speculation is that Sarkozy could make a come-back, either as the candidate of the UMP, or as the candidate of a newly-created Sarkozy party.
The latter is not as unlikely as it seems. The UMP was created out of the union of three center-right parties, the RPR, the DL and the UDF in 2002. Strong Sarkozy supporters like Valerie Pécresse and Laurent Wauquiez, both former Sarkozy ministers, would rally to him. And there are others. He could raise the money.
However, there is a fly in the ointment: Alain Juppé. A man, who, as Prime Minister was widely disliked by many, yet acknowledged as brilliant and capable (it was during his first mayoralty of Bordeaux that the city's successful restoration was initiated and brought to completion), he now leads in polls of UMP voters asked who would make a good president. While Copé may be most dynamic (54%), and Fillon just as courageous (36%), Juppé is now viewed by most UMP militants (the French term for party activists) as most likeable, most unifying, and closest to the people. Sacre bleu!
Juppé, who will be 71 in 2017, is having a bit of his own back in the latest polls. The former Prime Minister during the Presidency of Jacques Chirac, Sarkozy's predecessor, Juppé was forced to resign his Presidency of the UMP in July 2004 after being found guilty in a corruption scandal the previous January. He watched from the sidelines as Nicolas Sarkozy declared himself president of the party and candidate for the Presidency in 2005 . He was never a member of the Sarkozy cabinet, but remained active as mayor of Bordeaux for another term. Today, Nicolas Sarkozy must be asking himself whether Alain Juppé is a real threat to his comeback, Juppé having been identified as, between the three contenders for the hearts of UMP loyalists, "having the most points in common with Nicolas Sarkozy".
That the return of two men whose earlier careers in French politics were marked by their capacity to inspire violently negative passions is now welcome, is telling. The dearth of leadership in the UMP, Hollande's lack of leadership, the temporary weakness of the FN, the sclerotic French economy; all combined make Sarkozy and Juppé look like wise men.
Sarkozy-Juppé Redux?
The French political scene has been stabilized by the victory last Sunday of Jean-Louis Costes, the UMP (Union Pour Un Mouvement Populaire) deputy who defeated the FN (Front National) candidate over the seat that used to Jerome Cahuzac's. Cahuzac, the PS (Parti Socialiste) minister in the cabinet of President François Hollande, was forced to resign for having a Swiss bank account, legal under French law, but not under PS rules. Cahuzac, who was Mayor of Villeneuve-sur-Lot before becoming a député, repeatedly denied the existence of the account, both publicly and to intimates, a posture which undoubtedly gave greater force to the clamor. Having come clean, he still considered himself politically viable, a measure of either his arrogance or self-delusion. An inquiry directed, in part, at determining why Swiss authorities released the damning information, is in progress, and has caught in its net Cahuzac's former wife, a pale blonde beauty described alternatively as "cold" or "shy". The former Madame Cahuzac's prior denials of knowledge of the existence of the account lack a certain credibility in some circles: she is dermatologist who specializes in hair transplants, not an average housewife. Her former husband was a plastic surgeon until his interest in politics took precedence over his medical career.
The victory of the UMP was in good part the result of the temporary pact between the UMP and the PS; the latter ordered the losing candidate, Bernard Barral, to campaign with Costes to defeat the FN. The FN has been sidelined for the moment, and with François Hollande a millstone around the neck of the PS, the UMP can turn to what it knows best: infighting over who will be its leader and candidate for the presidency in 2017. All of which has the French press enjoying a field day over the possible return to public life of Nicolas Sarkozy, the Richard Nixon of France.
The comparisons between Sarkozy and Nixon are not ill-founded. While Nixon was dogged by his lies about Watergate and resigned, and Sakozy, merely defeated in his re-election bid, both inspired comparable dislike among their respective voters. Nixon and Sarkozy both trained as lawyers and have Machiavellian reputations. In the French press it is now said that Sarkozy watched his loyal Prime Minister, François Fillon, and the General Secretary of the UMP, Jean-François Copé, duke it out in a leadership contest last November, a duel that left both men badly damaged and which has paved the way for Sarkozy to return to public life. Specifically, Copé declared himself elected with 50.3% of the vote of party members, Fillon alleged fraud and asserted his own victory, Copé made counter-charges. Not a pretty picture.
In the aftermath of the débacle, speculation that, having sowed dissension in the first place, Sarkozy would now conquer, was widely bruited. Sarkozy's rejected his financier brother's invitation to work with him drumming up business with Qatar so he could keep his options open (French voters would hold the money to be made against Sarkozy's return --c.f., The French Are Funny About Money, an earlier post). Sarkozy is also said to have turned aside his mediagenic wife's entreaties to forget politics and concentrate on life outside politics, including raising the daughter born to Carla Bruni, the wealthy Italian model and singer who is Sarkozy's third wife.
From an office on rue Meromesnil in Paris, "Sarko" continues to meet visitors interested in his and their political future: for example, Jean-Michel Costes, whose little star twinkles after the victory in Villeneuve-sur-Lot --if only for a day. Sarkozy loyalists speak of the inevitability of his return: With François Hollande's public approval ratings after one year in office at historic lows, and four years more to go, the speculation is that Sarkozy could make a come-back, either as the candidate of the UMP, or as the candidate of a newly-created Sarkozy party.
The latter is not as unlikely as it seems. The UMP was created out of the union of three center-right parties, the RPR, the DL and the UDF in 2002. Strong Sarkozy supporters like Valerie Pécresse and Laurent Wauquiez, both former Sarkozy ministers, would rally to him. And there are others. He could raise the money.
However, there is a fly in the ointment: Alain Juppé. A man, who, as Prime Minister was widely disliked by many, yet acknowledged as brilliant and capable (it was during his first mayoralty of Bordeaux that the city's successful restoration was initiated and brought to completion), he now leads in polls of UMP voters asked who would make a good president. While Copé may be most dynamic (54%), and Fillon just as courageous (36%), Juppé is now viewed by most UMP militants (the French term for party activists) as most likeable, most unifying, and closest to the people. Sacre bleu!
Juppé, who will be 71 in 2017, is having a bit of his own back in the latest polls. The former Prime Minister during the Presidency of Jacques Chirac, Sarkozy's predecessor, Juppé was forced to resign his Presidency of the UMP in July 2004 after being found guilty in a corruption scandal the previous January. He watched from the sidelines as Nicolas Sarkozy declared himself president of the party and candidate for the Presidency in 2005 . He was never a member of the Sarkozy cabinet, but remained active as mayor of Bordeaux for another term. Today, Nicolas Sarkozy must be asking himself whether Alain Juppé is a real threat to his comeback, Juppé having been identified as, between the three contenders for the hearts of UMP loyalists, "having the most points in common with Nicolas Sarkozy".
That the return of two men whose earlier careers in French politics were marked by their capacity to inspire violently negative passions is now welcome, is telling. The dearth of leadership in the UMP, Hollande's lack of leadership, the temporary weakness of the FN, the sclerotic French economy; all combined make Sarkozy and Juppé look like wise men.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
June 27, 2013
The Tour de France;
Montpellier, The White City
If English actor Rowan Atkinson ("Mr. Bean") were French, he would be Clovis Cornillac, star of the new comedy about the Tour de France, La Grande Boucle (The Big Loop). Clovis Cornillac...not a name that exactly trips off the tongue, even in French. Where Atkinson is hairy and dark, and odd, Cornillac is fair and blue-eyed and just a bit touched. Cornillac plays François Nouel, a bicycle salesman who loses his job after he annoys the favorite to win the Tour, having just been left by a wife fed up with his cycling mania. In response to these setbacks (as well as a boozy evening spent with a former contender for the maillot jaune, the yellow jersey the Tour leader wears), François decides he will win back his self-respect by riding the entire grueling course, but starting a day before the professionals. François becomes a media sensation, eclipsing the Tour and its leader, an Italian cyclist who embodies every vulgar stereotype about Italians except a Mafia connection. He also befriends a hip-hop star, Âme Strong (get it?), wins back his son's admiration and his wife's love. Lastly, he earns the respect of the Tour leader, that Italian, who allows him to come in first on the final turn of the last stage, from Rambouillet to the finish at the Arc de Triomphe.
The movie includes cameos by former cycling legends, Bernard Hinault (five Tour de France wins) and Laurent Jalabert (ranked #1 in the 1990s). It also includes a faux doping scandal, with syringes and prohibited drugs planted on François, until then a populist hero. It is a terrible movie, unless you are a Clovis Cornillac fan, but it does have some lovely footage of the Pyrenées, some sheep and cows. It will never come to New York.
This year's tour is the 99th, and it will start in Montpellier, the capital of the Languedoc-Rousillon region, on July 5. Montpellier, a city of a quarter of a million people and growing, is characterized by buildings of ivory-colored building materials. A relatively young settlement with no Greek or Roman antecedents, its first mention is in a document of 985 A.D.. Its largest public space, the Place de la Comédie, is a pedestrianized Picadilly Circus, complete with a domed Gaumont Cinema at one end and the Montpellier Opera House at the other. Montpellier's most famous buildings are to be found off the Place de la Comédie and are hôtels particuliers, private houses built from the 15th to the 18th centuries by wealthy bourgeois, many of them Protestant, or Huguenot, in French.
Montpellier is home to a famous medical school and university (a conference on Shakespeare and Myth is in session for the week), and boasts many French language schools. It has an art museum, the Musée Fabre, housed in a building whose monumental interior architecture is the perfect setting for the many monumental 19th century academic paintings in its collection. I have never seen so many beautiful frames.
Next door, the Musée Sabatier d'Espeyran pretends to be a museum of decorative arts, but is in fact the former hotel particulier of the Sabatier d'Espeyran family, whose collections of Louis period furniture and that of Napoleon III, fill the rooms on the second and third floors. The first floor contains the family's collection of 17th century faience, and 18th and 19th century porcelain. All I could think of, looking at the pieces --which are beautiful, but not spectacular examples of their type-- was how large the tax deduction the Sabatier d'Espeyran family must have received for the gift of the building and its contents in 1967.
The Tour de France;
Montpellier, The White City
If English actor Rowan Atkinson ("Mr. Bean") were French, he would be Clovis Cornillac, star of the new comedy about the Tour de France, La Grande Boucle (The Big Loop). Clovis Cornillac...not a name that exactly trips off the tongue, even in French. Where Atkinson is hairy and dark, and odd, Cornillac is fair and blue-eyed and just a bit touched. Cornillac plays François Nouel, a bicycle salesman who loses his job after he annoys the favorite to win the Tour, having just been left by a wife fed up with his cycling mania. In response to these setbacks (as well as a boozy evening spent with a former contender for the maillot jaune, the yellow jersey the Tour leader wears), François decides he will win back his self-respect by riding the entire grueling course, but starting a day before the professionals. François becomes a media sensation, eclipsing the Tour and its leader, an Italian cyclist who embodies every vulgar stereotype about Italians except a Mafia connection. He also befriends a hip-hop star, Âme Strong (get it?), wins back his son's admiration and his wife's love. Lastly, he earns the respect of the Tour leader, that Italian, who allows him to come in first on the final turn of the last stage, from Rambouillet to the finish at the Arc de Triomphe.
The movie includes cameos by former cycling legends, Bernard Hinault (five Tour de France wins) and Laurent Jalabert (ranked #1 in the 1990s). It also includes a faux doping scandal, with syringes and prohibited drugs planted on François, until then a populist hero. It is a terrible movie, unless you are a Clovis Cornillac fan, but it does have some lovely footage of the Pyrenées, some sheep and cows. It will never come to New York.
This year's tour is the 99th, and it will start in Montpellier, the capital of the Languedoc-Rousillon region, on July 5. Montpellier, a city of a quarter of a million people and growing, is characterized by buildings of ivory-colored building materials. A relatively young settlement with no Greek or Roman antecedents, its first mention is in a document of 985 A.D.. Its largest public space, the Place de la Comédie, is a pedestrianized Picadilly Circus, complete with a domed Gaumont Cinema at one end and the Montpellier Opera House at the other. Montpellier's most famous buildings are to be found off the Place de la Comédie and are hôtels particuliers, private houses built from the 15th to the 18th centuries by wealthy bourgeois, many of them Protestant, or Huguenot, in French.
Montpellier is home to a famous medical school and university (a conference on Shakespeare and Myth is in session for the week), and boasts many French language schools. It has an art museum, the Musée Fabre, housed in a building whose monumental interior architecture is the perfect setting for the many monumental 19th century academic paintings in its collection. I have never seen so many beautiful frames.
Next door, the Musée Sabatier d'Espeyran pretends to be a museum of decorative arts, but is in fact the former hotel particulier of the Sabatier d'Espeyran family, whose collections of Louis period furniture and that of Napoleon III, fill the rooms on the second and third floors. The first floor contains the family's collection of 17th century faience, and 18th and 19th century porcelain. All I could think of, looking at the pieces --which are beautiful, but not spectacular examples of their type-- was how large the tax deduction the Sabatier d'Espeyran family must have received for the gift of the building and its contents in 1967.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
June 26, 2013
Grishka Goes AWOL
and Other Cat Tales;
Marseillan
Grishka, Francine's cat, is a smoky grey with golden eyes. Four years old, his name is the Russian for Gregory and means "watchful", or "vigilant". He is the lord of the manor here; however, his demesne does not go unchallenged. Two nights ago, a black cat walked along the top of garden wall, and yesterday morning, a fluffy cat the color of an unpeeled almond had a stare-down with Grishka on the patio.
Cats roam freely through Mèze, and in all the towns I have been in. Whether they are strays or simply exercising a streak of independence is hard to say, although their sang froid walking down a main street gives new meaning to the old saw about a cat having nine lives.
Grishka is a cat with a sculptural look. Whatever pose he is in, he looks self-possessed. If he stands on the first step of the staircase leading to the second floor of the house, he almost looks like a door ornament in the shape of a cat: still, gathered in himself, present in the moment, inscrutable.
He has not been difficult to care for. I lay out his food three times a day, along with water; let him outside and into the garden when I am there; bring him in when I am going out. Last night, however, he gave me quite a turn.
I had had dinner on the patio and was done with the washing up, preparing to close the patio for the night, when I noticed Grishka was gone. I looked everywhere in the house, as well as in the garden, but he had disappeared. All I could think of was, "If he is not back by tomorrow, do I call Francine, or do I wait?" Would it be worse to interrupt her holiday to tell her her beloved Grishka was gone, or should I wait until her return? Would Francine ever forgive me for chasing Grishka away?
I spent a sleepless night, my mind turning over the possibilities. I awoke groggy, but went right to the patio: no Grishka.
Walking upstairs, I saw him on the upstairs terrace, curled up in a potted palm. Finding a bed for the night under the potted palm was easy, but how Grishka got there remains a mystery: to reach the second-floor terrace, he would have had to vault the garden wall, mount the jasmine-covered roof and drop onto the tiles.
***
Marseillan, where the Canal du Midi empties into the Bassin de Thau, is a dowager of a town. While Marseille is the oldest city in France, founded about 600 BC, and Agde on the Bassin de Thau is second-oldest, nearby Marseillan is one of the oldest villages in France, having been settled by the Greeks and the Phoenecians as well. Its buildings are gracious and it boasts a Theatre Municipale that belies Marseillan's smallness: for the last 200 years a mere 3,000 people called Marseillan home. Drawn by the area's natural beauty and the beaches on both the Bassin de Thau and the Mediterranean, the 2010 census counted 10,000 inhabitants, expected to rise to 14,000 by 2015.
Marseillan Plage is the resort area built on the Mediterranean side of Marseillan. There is a camping ground, Les Mediterranées, near a strip of small-scale beach bars and restaurants catering to modest income holidayers.. Say what you will about this incursion into the natural beauty of the ocean, it is a model of cleanliness. Plage Robinson (named after Robinson Crusoe, I am told), is a wide-open beach whose fine sand and shallow waters are neither a swimmer or a surfer's paradise, but a fine place to take a sea bath, or baignade, as it is called here.
The sun has been very hot all day, so I don't get to the beach until 4:30 p.m. There is a young life guard, a welter-weight boxer from the look of him, patrolling the area. As he watches the shoreline from his fiefdom, the blockhouse known as a Pointe de Secour, he practices his boxing moves: dancing, throwing gloved punches, then pointed kicks. The life-guard is practicing Savate, or la boxe française. This is a traditional French martial art which uses the hands and feet as weapons. In Savate the fighters wear shoes, unlike Asian kick boxers. The technique used in deploying the feet must be graceful: he is.
The life-guard is stripped to the waist, wearing a black satin and gold-trimmed pair of boxing shorts. He moves like a dervish as he goes through his routine. With Plage Robinson posing little or no risk of misadventure to bathers, he will stay in fighting trim though the summer, going through his moves under the shade of the whitewashed blockhouse, delighting one and all. Friday the school holidays begin: he will be ready for them. Robinson Crusoe never had it so good.
Grishka Goes AWOL
and Other Cat Tales;
Marseillan
Grishka, Francine's cat, is a smoky grey with golden eyes. Four years old, his name is the Russian for Gregory and means "watchful", or "vigilant". He is the lord of the manor here; however, his demesne does not go unchallenged. Two nights ago, a black cat walked along the top of garden wall, and yesterday morning, a fluffy cat the color of an unpeeled almond had a stare-down with Grishka on the patio.
Cats roam freely through Mèze, and in all the towns I have been in. Whether they are strays or simply exercising a streak of independence is hard to say, although their sang froid walking down a main street gives new meaning to the old saw about a cat having nine lives.
Grishka is a cat with a sculptural look. Whatever pose he is in, he looks self-possessed. If he stands on the first step of the staircase leading to the second floor of the house, he almost looks like a door ornament in the shape of a cat: still, gathered in himself, present in the moment, inscrutable.
He has not been difficult to care for. I lay out his food three times a day, along with water; let him outside and into the garden when I am there; bring him in when I am going out. Last night, however, he gave me quite a turn.
I had had dinner on the patio and was done with the washing up, preparing to close the patio for the night, when I noticed Grishka was gone. I looked everywhere in the house, as well as in the garden, but he had disappeared. All I could think of was, "If he is not back by tomorrow, do I call Francine, or do I wait?" Would it be worse to interrupt her holiday to tell her her beloved Grishka was gone, or should I wait until her return? Would Francine ever forgive me for chasing Grishka away?
I spent a sleepless night, my mind turning over the possibilities. I awoke groggy, but went right to the patio: no Grishka.
Walking upstairs, I saw him on the upstairs terrace, curled up in a potted palm. Finding a bed for the night under the potted palm was easy, but how Grishka got there remains a mystery: to reach the second-floor terrace, he would have had to vault the garden wall, mount the jasmine-covered roof and drop onto the tiles.
***
Marseillan, where the Canal du Midi empties into the Bassin de Thau, is a dowager of a town. While Marseille is the oldest city in France, founded about 600 BC, and Agde on the Bassin de Thau is second-oldest, nearby Marseillan is one of the oldest villages in France, having been settled by the Greeks and the Phoenecians as well. Its buildings are gracious and it boasts a Theatre Municipale that belies Marseillan's smallness: for the last 200 years a mere 3,000 people called Marseillan home. Drawn by the area's natural beauty and the beaches on both the Bassin de Thau and the Mediterranean, the 2010 census counted 10,000 inhabitants, expected to rise to 14,000 by 2015.
Marseillan Plage is the resort area built on the Mediterranean side of Marseillan. There is a camping ground, Les Mediterranées, near a strip of small-scale beach bars and restaurants catering to modest income holidayers.. Say what you will about this incursion into the natural beauty of the ocean, it is a model of cleanliness. Plage Robinson (named after Robinson Crusoe, I am told), is a wide-open beach whose fine sand and shallow waters are neither a swimmer or a surfer's paradise, but a fine place to take a sea bath, or baignade, as it is called here.
The sun has been very hot all day, so I don't get to the beach until 4:30 p.m. There is a young life guard, a welter-weight boxer from the look of him, patrolling the area. As he watches the shoreline from his fiefdom, the blockhouse known as a Pointe de Secour, he practices his boxing moves: dancing, throwing gloved punches, then pointed kicks. The life-guard is practicing Savate, or la boxe française. This is a traditional French martial art which uses the hands and feet as weapons. In Savate the fighters wear shoes, unlike Asian kick boxers. The technique used in deploying the feet must be graceful: he is.
The life-guard is stripped to the waist, wearing a black satin and gold-trimmed pair of boxing shorts. He moves like a dervish as he goes through his routine. With Plage Robinson posing little or no risk of misadventure to bathers, he will stay in fighting trim though the summer, going through his moves under the shade of the whitewashed blockhouse, delighting one and all. Friday the school holidays begin: he will be ready for them. Robinson Crusoe never had it so good.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
June 25, 2013
Sète/Cette
The Mariner's Cemetery
Sète was known as Cette in the 19th century and earlier. The name derives from cetacea, the Latin for "whale", as anyone who recollects the chapter in Moby Dick devoted to the many species of whales will remember. The town is first mentioned in Ptolemy's Geography in the 2nd century A.D. and is built on Mount Saint Clair, at whose summit there is a small chapel devoted to the Virgin of La Sallette and maintained by a few priests of the eponymous order. The faithful can make a pilgrimage from the mountain's base to its top, the road marked along the way with the stations, fourteen in all.
Sète is one of the places along the European Mediterranean where boats to Tangier depart from, indeed, there is something of Algiers in the side streets of the old city rising to Mount Saint Clair. One of them, rue Rapide, runs straight up at a very steep angle before it runs into rue des 3 Journées, where I make a right turn and stop for a coffee at Le Bar du Plateau, recommended by the tourist office as a local place.
Rather than sit outside in the strong sun, I walk in and sit at the bar, where there is only one other client, a beer drinker, a slender man with tousled blond hair who looks to be in his 40s. The woman behind the bar is earthy looking, with her dyed black hair and blue eyes, and she is friendly. We talk a bit in French, and after a bit, the beer drinker asks me whether I am English. I say I am American, and before I know it I am in conversation with Erik Gietl, a South African painter who is having having a major exhibition at the Chapelle du Cartier Haut up the street. Erik left South Africa for Paris, which he left five years ago to settle in Sète with his French wife and children. I visit the exhibit, which is a few streets away, inside an enormous room in the chapel with a vaulted ceiling made of stone blocks.
The space is a perfect place for Erik's paintings, which are figurative and realist, featuring seedy encounters between prostitutes and clients, or drug addicts. The paintings, while graphic, are closely observed and remind me, in their sardonic aspect, of the German expressionist painter Max Beckmann; in their unflinching realism, of Goya.
I am actually in Sète to visit the Musée Paul Valery, which has some connection to a French man of letters I have read of and heard mentioned many times, but know nothing about . To reach the museum, I walk the length of the rue des 3 Journeés; the street, high above the Mediterranean, opens out to the sea, providing beautiful views of the blue-green waters. At its end, I have to turn right and walk up the hill, passing the Cimetière Marin (The Mariner's Cemetery), the subject of a long poem by Valèry.
The cemetery's white headstones, their simple crosses taller than the cemetery walls , keep vigil over the broad expanse of the Mediterranean and the life it gave those now buried within the cemetery walls. No wonder Valèry, a son of Sète, wanted to immortalize the place. The museum, not far away, is not really devoted to him, but to paintings by painters from the region or views of Sète. A great many of Valèry's writings are on display in a large room on the second floor, but almost as an afterthought. Nonetheless, Valèry's remarkable gifts are evident: he wrote poetry, essays on music, philosophy, science. He painted and drew, too, and wrote notebooks containing aphorisms (short, succinct statements meant to convey a unique insight). Yet he wrote nothing for twenty years, following the death of his mentor, Stephane Mallarmé, in 1896. Mallarmé was, himself, a disciple of Charles Baudelaire, the Symbolist poet of the mid-19th century who celebrated sensuous experience in his poetry. Valéry is considered by some to be the last of rhe French Symbolists, a school that used vivid language to convey startling sense experiences. Valèry's poetry employs formal verse structures and singing rhythms.
Yet Valèry was more than a poet, he was a polymath. He lived through the German occupation of France during the Second World War without compromising his principles, although it cost him. He is a revered intellectual figure in France, and would have received the Nobel Prize in 1945, but died in July before it could be awarded, two months after the conclusion of hostilities.
Here is a verse from Le Cimetière Marin:
Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, OEil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous un voile de flamme,
O mon silence!... Èdifice dans l'âme
Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
Perduring treasure, simple temple to Minerva,
Mass of calm, and visible reserve,
Haughty water, Eye that seals within
So much sleep under a veil of flame,
O my silence!...Edifice in the soul,
Golden attic of a thousand tiles, Roof!
Sète/Cette
The Mariner's Cemetery
Sète was known as Cette in the 19th century and earlier. The name derives from cetacea, the Latin for "whale", as anyone who recollects the chapter in Moby Dick devoted to the many species of whales will remember. The town is first mentioned in Ptolemy's Geography in the 2nd century A.D. and is built on Mount Saint Clair, at whose summit there is a small chapel devoted to the Virgin of La Sallette and maintained by a few priests of the eponymous order. The faithful can make a pilgrimage from the mountain's base to its top, the road marked along the way with the stations, fourteen in all.
Sète is one of the places along the European Mediterranean where boats to Tangier depart from, indeed, there is something of Algiers in the side streets of the old city rising to Mount Saint Clair. One of them, rue Rapide, runs straight up at a very steep angle before it runs into rue des 3 Journées, where I make a right turn and stop for a coffee at Le Bar du Plateau, recommended by the tourist office as a local place.
Rather than sit outside in the strong sun, I walk in and sit at the bar, where there is only one other client, a beer drinker, a slender man with tousled blond hair who looks to be in his 40s. The woman behind the bar is earthy looking, with her dyed black hair and blue eyes, and she is friendly. We talk a bit in French, and after a bit, the beer drinker asks me whether I am English. I say I am American, and before I know it I am in conversation with Erik Gietl, a South African painter who is having having a major exhibition at the Chapelle du Cartier Haut up the street. Erik left South Africa for Paris, which he left five years ago to settle in Sète with his French wife and children. I visit the exhibit, which is a few streets away, inside an enormous room in the chapel with a vaulted ceiling made of stone blocks.
The space is a perfect place for Erik's paintings, which are figurative and realist, featuring seedy encounters between prostitutes and clients, or drug addicts. The paintings, while graphic, are closely observed and remind me, in their sardonic aspect, of the German expressionist painter Max Beckmann; in their unflinching realism, of Goya.
I am actually in Sète to visit the Musée Paul Valery, which has some connection to a French man of letters I have read of and heard mentioned many times, but know nothing about . To reach the museum, I walk the length of the rue des 3 Journeés; the street, high above the Mediterranean, opens out to the sea, providing beautiful views of the blue-green waters. At its end, I have to turn right and walk up the hill, passing the Cimetière Marin (The Mariner's Cemetery), the subject of a long poem by Valèry.
The cemetery's white headstones, their simple crosses taller than the cemetery walls , keep vigil over the broad expanse of the Mediterranean and the life it gave those now buried within the cemetery walls. No wonder Valèry, a son of Sète, wanted to immortalize the place. The museum, not far away, is not really devoted to him, but to paintings by painters from the region or views of Sète. A great many of Valèry's writings are on display in a large room on the second floor, but almost as an afterthought. Nonetheless, Valèry's remarkable gifts are evident: he wrote poetry, essays on music, philosophy, science. He painted and drew, too, and wrote notebooks containing aphorisms (short, succinct statements meant to convey a unique insight). Yet he wrote nothing for twenty years, following the death of his mentor, Stephane Mallarmé, in 1896. Mallarmé was, himself, a disciple of Charles Baudelaire, the Symbolist poet of the mid-19th century who celebrated sensuous experience in his poetry. Valéry is considered by some to be the last of rhe French Symbolists, a school that used vivid language to convey startling sense experiences. Valèry's poetry employs formal verse structures and singing rhythms.
Yet Valèry was more than a poet, he was a polymath. He lived through the German occupation of France during the Second World War without compromising his principles, although it cost him. He is a revered intellectual figure in France, and would have received the Nobel Prize in 1945, but died in July before it could be awarded, two months after the conclusion of hostilities.
Here is a verse from Le Cimetière Marin:
Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, OEil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous un voile de flamme,
O mon silence!... Èdifice dans l'âme
Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
Perduring treasure, simple temple to Minerva,
Mass of calm, and visible reserve,
Haughty water, Eye that seals within
So much sleep under a veil of flame,
O my silence!...Edifice in the soul,
Golden attic of a thousand tiles, Roof!
Monday, June 24, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
Mèze to Lezignan-Corbières and back;
Old Mèze/New Mèze
I call Monsieur Pascual at the Renault garage in Lezignan-Corbières at 10 o'clock, and am told that the needed battery for the Clio 4 has arrived. He asks me to call back in "a good half hour" to see whether the vehicle will be ready for pick up. I call back at 10:45 a.m., and he tells me I can pick up the vehicle --after 2 p.m., as the garage will be closed from noon until then. The Renault emergency replacement vehicle department in Paris tells me they will have a taxi waiting for me at the Belle Isle garage, also in Lezignan-Corbières; it will take me to the Renault garage after I drop off the Seat.
To make sure that I get to the Belle Isle by two o'clock, I leave at noon. I make it there at 2:15 p.m., as the Belle Isle is not actually in Lezignan-Corbières, but just outside it, in the Carrefour shopping center. There is a bit of back and forth with the garage about a few scratches on the car, along with its dirtiness, but they were noted on the rental document, and I am assured not my responsibility.
Meanwhile, the taxi driver is waiting for me. His radio is rather loud and playing bubble-gum music, so I ask him if he would turn it down a bit.
"You're asking a lot. Already, you were not on time --the reservation was for 2:15 p.m. and it is 2:35 p.m."
"I was told the reservation was for 2:30 p.m.. And I have to pick up this Renault--"
"Oh, it's a terrible car. The Clio 4 has a lot of problems, and it just came off the line. I would take any car --a Citröen, a Peugeot-- any car but a Renault."
"But they used to be considered good cars. My cousin worked his entire career for Renault--"
"That was then. Now they're not worth the money they're asking for them."
"They gave me a Seat Lion as a replacement, a Spanish car--"
"Yes, but the motor is made in Germany, on account of a merger. It's a much better car than the Renault Clio."
Giving the taxi driver a chance to talk cars seems to ease the tension I created by asking him to turn down the music. When we get to the Renault station he is all smiles and wishes me "good luck with the Clio."
Driving back and forth from Lezignan-Corbières, which I would never have visited otherwise, gives me a chance to take in the difference between its landscape and that of the Minervois. Lezignan-Corbières is arid and dusty, even rocky in places. Windy, too, as evidenced by the windmills placed cheek by jowl with the city limits. Not a beautiful part of France, it produces a wine that is more tannic than the Minervois, which is fruity and easy to drink.
The town of Lezignan-Corbières has something about it that still smacks of the German occupation. There are lots of old advertisements painted on walls, as faded as the façades of the houses. It looks like a good place to film a movie about collaborationists. Looking up some of the history of the Second World War in France, I read that Lezignan-Corbières formed part of the "Free Zone", as it was called. To put a fine point on it, the "Free Zone" lasted only until November 1942, when the Germans launched "Operation Attila" and completed their subjection of France. (The north was subjugated in June 1940, when the Germans and the government of Maréchal Petain entered into an agreement that created what is known as "Vichy" France.)
If nothing else, the drive proves that not every part of France is worth a trip. Eager to return to Mèze as soon as possible, I start out my drive and get stuck in a traffic jam in a no-account town called Causan. The delay takes an hour, but whether it was caused by transport of a aeolien (the French term for wind-power machines), the end of the school day or an accident, is never revealed. I will say that I am impressed buy the orderliness of the cars all-around. There is a small, parallel road for bicycles to the right, but not a driver launches himself on it, which I couldn't say wouldn't happen in New York.
Driving throughout the day (the total trip takes six hours), I notice something curious: hitchhikers. Early in the morning, I see a few young people, a boy and two young girls, trying to thumb a ride. As the day goes on, I see more and more solitary women in beachwear along the roads, perhaps forty in all. They are positioned on the outskirts of Lezignan-Corbières and Bèziers, mostly. It takes me a while to figure out that they are prostitutes.
The women are all in their twenties, with long, brown hair and shorts. They are deeply tanned. They could just be intrepid hitch-hikers, girls going places; but the high heels give them away.
***
Trying to unwind after the day's events, I take a walk along the Mèze side of the Bassin de Thau, the salt-water lake between Mezè and Sète. I walk up to the old town as far as the main square, where the City Hall and the church of Saint Hilaire are located. It is not a market day (those are on Thursday and Sunday), so everything is empty. It is 7:30 p.m.; the village is as quiet as a mouse. A few teenaged boys are sitting on a slab of stone on the square, not doing much of anything.
The streets of the old town in Mèze are not quite as narrow as some of those in Naples or small towns in Sicily, but the feeling is similar. There are flowers all over the iron balconies and some of the washing has been hung off the balconies to dry. The wooden shutters on the windows are closed, keeping the outside world at bay. The private world spills out into the street, though: conversation can be heard through the walls, a little music, too.
The old town is where the Mèzois, the people born and raised in Mèze, live. The names of the streets are picturesque: rue de l'Abbatoir (Slaughterhouse Street), rue Dr. Magna, rue Massaloup; the lifestyle not so very, judging by the small size of the property lots and the limited height of the buildings, most two or three stories.
By the port one restaurant is open and is doing a land-office business; on the other side, where I am walking, a well-dressed German couple of retirement age is sitting on the terrace of an apartment in a three-story building, their idyll overlooking the port framed by A Vendre (For Sale) signs on the other three apartments. There are boats in the harbor, small ones, largely. Mèze is known for its water-jousts: in the summer men in row boats with small ladders at their ends try to knock each other into the water. It is a major attraction during the summer; two of the docked boats, one red, one blue, are dedicated to his activity. A larger one in the center of the "port" --really a rectangle of water-- is boat to take tourists to the shellfish beds in nearby Bouzigues.
Leaving the old town, new Mèze makes itself known. In this part of Mèze there is a yacht club, a kite-surfing school, a cinema showing films that competed at Cannes, four tennis courts, and a sailboat basin. The tennis courts are always busy, and the players play in fashionable gear and accessories. Beyond this complex (which is not exclusive, but open to all), are the upscale real estate developments catering mainly to affluent retirees from beyond Mèze. My sense of it is that old Mèze bakes the bread and cuts the meat that new Mèze eats, but aside from their interaction across a shop counter, they don't mix much.
Mèze to Lezignan-Corbières and back;
Old Mèze/New Mèze
I call Monsieur Pascual at the Renault garage in Lezignan-Corbières at 10 o'clock, and am told that the needed battery for the Clio 4 has arrived. He asks me to call back in "a good half hour" to see whether the vehicle will be ready for pick up. I call back at 10:45 a.m., and he tells me I can pick up the vehicle --after 2 p.m., as the garage will be closed from noon until then. The Renault emergency replacement vehicle department in Paris tells me they will have a taxi waiting for me at the Belle Isle garage, also in Lezignan-Corbières; it will take me to the Renault garage after I drop off the Seat.
To make sure that I get to the Belle Isle by two o'clock, I leave at noon. I make it there at 2:15 p.m., as the Belle Isle is not actually in Lezignan-Corbières, but just outside it, in the Carrefour shopping center. There is a bit of back and forth with the garage about a few scratches on the car, along with its dirtiness, but they were noted on the rental document, and I am assured not my responsibility.
Meanwhile, the taxi driver is waiting for me. His radio is rather loud and playing bubble-gum music, so I ask him if he would turn it down a bit.
"You're asking a lot. Already, you were not on time --the reservation was for 2:15 p.m. and it is 2:35 p.m."
"I was told the reservation was for 2:30 p.m.. And I have to pick up this Renault--"
"Oh, it's a terrible car. The Clio 4 has a lot of problems, and it just came off the line. I would take any car --a Citröen, a Peugeot-- any car but a Renault."
"But they used to be considered good cars. My cousin worked his entire career for Renault--"
"That was then. Now they're not worth the money they're asking for them."
"They gave me a Seat Lion as a replacement, a Spanish car--"
"Yes, but the motor is made in Germany, on account of a merger. It's a much better car than the Renault Clio."
Giving the taxi driver a chance to talk cars seems to ease the tension I created by asking him to turn down the music. When we get to the Renault station he is all smiles and wishes me "good luck with the Clio."
Driving back and forth from Lezignan-Corbières, which I would never have visited otherwise, gives me a chance to take in the difference between its landscape and that of the Minervois. Lezignan-Corbières is arid and dusty, even rocky in places. Windy, too, as evidenced by the windmills placed cheek by jowl with the city limits. Not a beautiful part of France, it produces a wine that is more tannic than the Minervois, which is fruity and easy to drink.
The town of Lezignan-Corbières has something about it that still smacks of the German occupation. There are lots of old advertisements painted on walls, as faded as the façades of the houses. It looks like a good place to film a movie about collaborationists. Looking up some of the history of the Second World War in France, I read that Lezignan-Corbières formed part of the "Free Zone", as it was called. To put a fine point on it, the "Free Zone" lasted only until November 1942, when the Germans launched "Operation Attila" and completed their subjection of France. (The north was subjugated in June 1940, when the Germans and the government of Maréchal Petain entered into an agreement that created what is known as "Vichy" France.)
If nothing else, the drive proves that not every part of France is worth a trip. Eager to return to Mèze as soon as possible, I start out my drive and get stuck in a traffic jam in a no-account town called Causan. The delay takes an hour, but whether it was caused by transport of a aeolien (the French term for wind-power machines), the end of the school day or an accident, is never revealed. I will say that I am impressed buy the orderliness of the cars all-around. There is a small, parallel road for bicycles to the right, but not a driver launches himself on it, which I couldn't say wouldn't happen in New York.
Driving throughout the day (the total trip takes six hours), I notice something curious: hitchhikers. Early in the morning, I see a few young people, a boy and two young girls, trying to thumb a ride. As the day goes on, I see more and more solitary women in beachwear along the roads, perhaps forty in all. They are positioned on the outskirts of Lezignan-Corbières and Bèziers, mostly. It takes me a while to figure out that they are prostitutes.
The women are all in their twenties, with long, brown hair and shorts. They are deeply tanned. They could just be intrepid hitch-hikers, girls going places; but the high heels give them away.
***
Trying to unwind after the day's events, I take a walk along the Mèze side of the Bassin de Thau, the salt-water lake between Mezè and Sète. I walk up to the old town as far as the main square, where the City Hall and the church of Saint Hilaire are located. It is not a market day (those are on Thursday and Sunday), so everything is empty. It is 7:30 p.m.; the village is as quiet as a mouse. A few teenaged boys are sitting on a slab of stone on the square, not doing much of anything.
The streets of the old town in Mèze are not quite as narrow as some of those in Naples or small towns in Sicily, but the feeling is similar. There are flowers all over the iron balconies and some of the washing has been hung off the balconies to dry. The wooden shutters on the windows are closed, keeping the outside world at bay. The private world spills out into the street, though: conversation can be heard through the walls, a little music, too.
The old town is where the Mèzois, the people born and raised in Mèze, live. The names of the streets are picturesque: rue de l'Abbatoir (Slaughterhouse Street), rue Dr. Magna, rue Massaloup; the lifestyle not so very, judging by the small size of the property lots and the limited height of the buildings, most two or three stories.
By the port one restaurant is open and is doing a land-office business; on the other side, where I am walking, a well-dressed German couple of retirement age is sitting on the terrace of an apartment in a three-story building, their idyll overlooking the port framed by A Vendre (For Sale) signs on the other three apartments. There are boats in the harbor, small ones, largely. Mèze is known for its water-jousts: in the summer men in row boats with small ladders at their ends try to knock each other into the water. It is a major attraction during the summer; two of the docked boats, one red, one blue, are dedicated to his activity. A larger one in the center of the "port" --really a rectangle of water-- is boat to take tourists to the shellfish beds in nearby Bouzigues.
Leaving the old town, new Mèze makes itself known. In this part of Mèze there is a yacht club, a kite-surfing school, a cinema showing films that competed at Cannes, four tennis courts, and a sailboat basin. The tennis courts are always busy, and the players play in fashionable gear and accessories. Beyond this complex (which is not exclusive, but open to all), are the upscale real estate developments catering mainly to affluent retirees from beyond Mèze. My sense of it is that old Mèze bakes the bread and cuts the meat that new Mèze eats, but aside from their interaction across a shop counter, they don't mix much.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
June 23, 2013
Victory!
Caunes to Mèze
I get up at 6:30 a.m. and am in the Seat Lion by 7:25 a.m., on the road to Mèze. The roads are virtually devoid of cars. As a result of not having to think about other drivers, when I see the first sign for "Béziers" at the rotary I also see the sign for the A-75 toll road and turn left, as I was instructed by Francine. A little further, and I see another rotary, which also indicates the A-75. I travel all the way to the turn-off for Pèzenas and from there to Sète and Mèze. On that road, I pass a sign for Montady stop for ten minutes to verify that I am indeed, on the road to Pèzenas. From there I go straight on to Mèze. I have made it to Mèze in 1 hr 35. This is progress.
Francine is surprised to see me --she thought I would arrive by eleven o'clock. I go off to the market to give her time to shower and change. The Sunday market features vendors of specialities of the southwest, friandes, flaky lard pastries stuffed with anchovies, or tomatoes and cheese, pâtes stuffed with every kind of charcuterie or meat. I stand on line in the bakery near St. Hilaire to buy a corn loaf, I visit the covered market and buy a spread made of a mixture of tomatoes and olive oil that will work well with the corn loaf. I also buy cheese from the fromager, a cheese from Franche Comté, in the northeast, a buttery, nutty product.
Tuesday I have to visit Sète to pick up a friend at the S.N.C.F. station, so Francine takes it upon herself to take me on a practice run to the gare. As I take the wheel, the sun is shining brightly, and Sète's canals are on show. I turn right at their end and move uphill, past the sign for the Musée Paul Valèry, towards the Corniche, the coastal road. We pass a tony area of Sète, seaside condominia built painted dusty orange and ivory, finally arriving at Sète place, a subdivision of the city. I park the car and we walk to the beach, which faces the Mediterranean. The sea is blue-green and the two restaurants on the beach, Dôme and Ola, are giant outdoor eating spots with cover from the sun. Francine prefers Ola, so we go there.
Francine suggests that we order couteaux. The word is the French word for knives, but also means razor clams. Whenever I have had these before, they are large and rubbery, so I am surprised when a plate of ten comes, each about as large as a finger. They have been prepared with olive oil and garlic; they are so good, the sauce has to be sopped up with some bread. A salad made of local greens completes the meal.
Here are some photos of the beach at Sète plage:
Victory!
Caunes to Mèze
I get up at 6:30 a.m. and am in the Seat Lion by 7:25 a.m., on the road to Mèze. The roads are virtually devoid of cars. As a result of not having to think about other drivers, when I see the first sign for "Béziers" at the rotary I also see the sign for the A-75 toll road and turn left, as I was instructed by Francine. A little further, and I see another rotary, which also indicates the A-75. I travel all the way to the turn-off for Pèzenas and from there to Sète and Mèze. On that road, I pass a sign for Montady stop for ten minutes to verify that I am indeed, on the road to Pèzenas. From there I go straight on to Mèze. I have made it to Mèze in 1 hr 35. This is progress.
Francine is surprised to see me --she thought I would arrive by eleven o'clock. I go off to the market to give her time to shower and change. The Sunday market features vendors of specialities of the southwest, friandes, flaky lard pastries stuffed with anchovies, or tomatoes and cheese, pâtes stuffed with every kind of charcuterie or meat. I stand on line in the bakery near St. Hilaire to buy a corn loaf, I visit the covered market and buy a spread made of a mixture of tomatoes and olive oil that will work well with the corn loaf. I also buy cheese from the fromager, a cheese from Franche Comté, in the northeast, a buttery, nutty product.
Tuesday I have to visit Sète to pick up a friend at the S.N.C.F. station, so Francine takes it upon herself to take me on a practice run to the gare. As I take the wheel, the sun is shining brightly, and Sète's canals are on show. I turn right at their end and move uphill, past the sign for the Musée Paul Valèry, towards the Corniche, the coastal road. We pass a tony area of Sète, seaside condominia built painted dusty orange and ivory, finally arriving at Sète place, a subdivision of the city. I park the car and we walk to the beach, which faces the Mediterranean. The sea is blue-green and the two restaurants on the beach, Dôme and Ola, are giant outdoor eating spots with cover from the sun. Francine prefers Ola, so we go there.
Francine suggests that we order couteaux. The word is the French word for knives, but also means razor clams. Whenever I have had these before, they are large and rubbery, so I am surprised when a plate of ten comes, each about as large as a finger. They have been prepared with olive oil and garlic; they are so good, the sauce has to be sopped up with some bread. A salad made of local greens completes the meal.
Here are some photos of the beach at Sète plage:
Saturday, June 22, 2013
June 22, 2013
The Kindness Of Strangers
Aside from the car-leasing personnel, I am struck by the many small kindnesses shown me by many people since I arrived in France: the efforts of David Chevalier, the manager of the Hotel d'Orsay in Paris to get my hiking poles back to me, for a start.
Two days ago, on the way back from Narbonne after picking up the Seat Lion, I get lost after taking the toll-road exit for Carcassonne, good and lost in the street-lets called ruelles along the Canal du Midi. A young man, seeing that I have already made one bad attempt to get back on the road, says,
"The Pont Rouge Intermarché Hypermarché? --I'll take you there", and proceeds to drive a good many miles out of his way to get me to the right Intermarché. He doesn't stop --had he, I had a twenty Euro bill to give him to cover the gas-- but he just turns around and waves as he drives away.
In Pézenas, well-groomed older man emerges from the Hôtel de Ribes just as I am reading the historic marker. He invites me in to see the venerable courtyard, the subject of so many photographs and postcards of Pézenas.
Lost in the fields on a bicycle ride earlier, trying to find out how to get back to Caunes, as well as how I got lost in the first place on an earlier trip to Peyriac, I meet a man walking with a dog who accompanies me until I reach the main road. The personal civility of the people combined with the natural beauty of the area is balm.
At one point I cycle through a detour from road works in Peyriac. Three boys, about ten years each, emerge around a corner. Two are on a bicycle big enough for an adult, with one pedaling, the other, barefoot riding behind. One of them is carrying a large black bird in his hands. It has a red band on one of its legs. When I ask him about it, expressing concern that it might be diseased, he answers
"No, we're teaching it to fly--"
On the other hand, the French can be crafty: the taxi driver who took me to Narbonne to pick up the Seat told me that he was not taking the toll road, so that he could stretch the trip out and be paid more than if he took the faster road. And in Caunes, I have observed a man filling up several gallon-sized plastic bottles with water from the fountain at Place de la Republique. The water is not potable, so why would he? Probably because he wants to water his plants and keep his water bill as low as possible.
The Kindness Of Strangers
Aside from the car-leasing personnel, I am struck by the many small kindnesses shown me by many people since I arrived in France: the efforts of David Chevalier, the manager of the Hotel d'Orsay in Paris to get my hiking poles back to me, for a start.
Two days ago, on the way back from Narbonne after picking up the Seat Lion, I get lost after taking the toll-road exit for Carcassonne, good and lost in the street-lets called ruelles along the Canal du Midi. A young man, seeing that I have already made one bad attempt to get back on the road, says,
"The Pont Rouge Intermarché Hypermarché? --I'll take you there", and proceeds to drive a good many miles out of his way to get me to the right Intermarché. He doesn't stop --had he, I had a twenty Euro bill to give him to cover the gas-- but he just turns around and waves as he drives away.
In Pézenas, well-groomed older man emerges from the Hôtel de Ribes just as I am reading the historic marker. He invites me in to see the venerable courtyard, the subject of so many photographs and postcards of Pézenas.
Lost in the fields on a bicycle ride earlier, trying to find out how to get back to Caunes, as well as how I got lost in the first place on an earlier trip to Peyriac, I meet a man walking with a dog who accompanies me until I reach the main road. The personal civility of the people combined with the natural beauty of the area is balm.
At one point I cycle through a detour from road works in Peyriac. Three boys, about ten years each, emerge around a corner. Two are on a bicycle big enough for an adult, with one pedaling, the other, barefoot riding behind. One of them is carrying a large black bird in his hands. It has a red band on one of its legs. When I ask him about it, expressing concern that it might be diseased, he answers
"No, we're teaching it to fly--"
On the other hand, the French can be crafty: the taxi driver who took me to Narbonne to pick up the Seat told me that he was not taking the toll road, so that he could stretch the trip out and be paid more than if he took the faster road. And in Caunes, I have observed a man filling up several gallon-sized plastic bottles with water from the fountain at Place de la Republique. The water is not potable, so why would he? Probably because he wants to water his plants and keep his water bill as low as possible.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
The Longest Day:
Pézenas and Méze via Béziers and back
I have scheduled a morning visit to Pézenas, a town associated with Molière, the 17th century playwright, actor and founder of the Comédie Française, so that Alline can see the town and the work of its artisans. We are due to meet Francine in Mèze, where I am dropping off groceries in anticipation of my week of cat-sitting while she is in Denmark, and then the three of us are having lunch.
But before I launch out in an easterly direction, I have to find out whether the garage at Levignan-Corbières has received the replacement battery for the Clio #4. Yesterday Monsieur Pascual told me to call him at 10:00 a.m., so today, after going about 12 miles, Alline and I stop in Homps, the village and boat basin on the Canal du Midi to have a coffee before I call him. Monsieur Pascual tells me the battery has not arrived and that I will have to call him Monday, when it is likely to be delivered. This is highly inconvenient, as on Monday, I will be two hours away in Mèze, meaning a four-hour round trip is in store for me. I try getting Europa Car to extend the rental of the Seat until I return to the area, but the Europa Car emergency service personnel are adamant. So long as I am in France, they say, I have to pick up the car Monday. On to the next challenge, driving to Pézenas.
I have no problem driving out of Caunes or traveling the local roads as far as the western outskirts of Béziers, where I am supposed to turn left and drive north around Béziers to the junction for Montady and Pézenas. Notwithstanding, once I reach the left turn-off, I am stymied by the traffic signs and waste an hour trying to stay out of the Centre Ville. Finally, I give up and we head for the toll road to Mèze, turning off at Exit 33 and making it to Mèze by noon. Francine is, once again, incredulous at my divagations, although she does concede that it is difficult to negotiate the traffic circles without getting lost. "In six months, I am sure you will be a master", she says encouragingly.
Fortunately, the trip to Pézenas is not so fraught. In Place Gambetta we visit Tout Ce Qui Brille ("All That Glitters"), the workshop of Olivier Dahlman, a master gilder. He sorts out a question that has long troubled me: What is the difference between gilding with water and gilding with oil? The answer is that the former is an older technique, but a more wasteful one than gilding with oil. However, incising any kind of designs on a surface can only be done after water gilding. In both cases, the finished product is polished with a piece of agate mineral. Anything can be gilded Olivier tells me: clients bring their children's baby shoes to be gilded, for instance. Throughout the workshop, and more to my liking, hang examples of mirrors he has gilded in a variety of shades of gold, lovely antique pieces given a second life.
Further on, we see the shop of a master potter and painter of faience, François Siffre. He makes his wares in the style for which nearby Montpellier was famous in the 16th century, a grey base onto which blue borders are painted, the centers embellished with brightly colored flowers. Finally, we reach Le Carrefour de Soie ("The Crossroads of Silk"), where Ahmed Chakkaki weaves silk in the style of Damascus. We have only scratched the surface of the creativity of the Péznois artisans.
In the former hotel particular that belonged to Baron Vulliod-Saint German, now a museum that bears his name, there is an exhibit of clothing worn by the wealthy of Pézenas from 1789 to the Second Empire. I am struck by how very small and delicate the wearers of the finely made garments were. More striking still is the great wooden chair, tall, stiff-backed and made of the heaviest wood known, as le fauteuil de Molière. Molière, a traveling player who spent considerable time in Pézenas, was friendly with a barber named Gély, who took such a fancy to the wordsmith that anyone attempting to sit in the chair was shooed away. The chair remained in the family for more than two centuries, until a few years ago, the Amis de Pézenas, a civic organization, clubbed together and bought the chair so it could be placed in the Musée Vulliod-Saint Germain. There is one other fauteuil de Molière: it stands at the entrance of the Comédie Française, in Paris, Molière's memorial.
Tonight is the Fête de la Musique all over France, a sort of culturally-mandated party in celebration of the first day of summer, which involves musical celebrations in town squares throughout the country. In Pézenas, technicians and musicians on a sound stage are getting ready to perform in a few hours. Alline and I have a salade peznois in a café opposite: lettuce with walnut oil dressing, garnished with raisins and garnished with a pastry that looks like a large spool for thread and filled with mincemeat. Indeed, these pâtes de Pézenas, have an interesting history. They were introduced to Pézenas in the mid-18th century by an Englishman, Robert Clive, First Baron Clive, conqueror of India. Clive lived in the Château de Larzac in 1768, at which time his Indian cooks introduced the delicacy, a variant of the savory known as keema nan. They are available all over Pézenas.
We are able to leave before the noise starts, and make it back to Caunes-Minervois swiftly, as I am now getting the hang of the road to Béziers, even if it will take a few more trips before I can get to the A75 and east. I have driven in and out of so many narrow corners, negotiated enough tight spots, driven through enough ruts masquerading as roads, that I am gaining confidence as a driver, a role I never imagined for myself.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
June 20, 2013
Caunes-Minervois to Narbonne
and Back
I awake after a restless night, full of foreboding about the eventual resolution of the problems with the car. Nonetheless, I rise and suit up for another brief bicycle ride before planning something to do with Alline while we wait for the taxi to pick us up at 1:00 p.m. to take us to Narbonne to pick up the Seat "Lion".
Rather than riding in the direction of Peyriac and Rieux, as I normally do, when I pass the sign on the left for Notre Dame du Cros, I take it, thinking the road will be less crowded. It is indeed empty, and as I pedal, rises, until I am in sight of a long ridge. A bit further on, I see pasturage below and two horses, one a pinto, the other a golden brown, gamboling. Over a tiny bridge and on the left I see a roadside marker, a shrine with an image of the Mother and Child. Just a little bit farther and I see, nestled in the trees, the chapel of Notre Dame du Cros. I continue on until I reach the church, which is framed by an enormous white crucifix bearing the date "1886" on the right. Next to the church is a small, well-cared for house. The church itself has the date "1913" chiseled over one of its doors. I try to enter the church, but it is locked. It seems a secluded spot, seldom visited, although I note that a detailed marker explains that the little stream flowing beside the chapel is considered to have special powers and that every September 8 there is a pilgrimage to the spot.
I walk a few feet beyond the church, following the little path that continues downward beyond its steps and follows the stream. Just as I turn I meet a young fawn, all legs and eyes and ears walking up the path towards me. She looks at me with the happiest expression on her face until, suddenly realizing...my apart-ness...she startles. Her fright is such that, in her fear and haste, she loses her balance on those lovely legs and actually falls on her side before getting up again and...disappearing into the forest.
I ride back to 30 avenue des Minervois and suggest to Alline that we might walk to Notre Dame du Cros and back before we have to be picked up by the taxi. Indeed, we make the walk and reach the church, which I am surprised to discover is open. A lone woman prays at the ancient statue, another at a pew, while a youngish priest, dressed in the habit of a hermit, prepares the altar for daily Mass at 11:30 a.m. Several other people come in for Mass as well. Despite its remote location, Mass is said there every day including Sunday by the hermit, who also writes books, including one published just last year.
Notre Dame du Cros was a "dependence" of the abbey of Caunes-Minervois in the 9th century and has been renovated many times through the centuries. Inside it contains a primitive statue of the Virgin and child and paintings of significant skill. A photo of Francis I, the Pope, graces the entrance to the chapel. It is extraordinary peaceful inside. The website of the Mayor of Caunes-Minervois contains photographs of the chapel and observes that it "was secularized several times and valiantly resisted the outrages of the Revolution".
***
In the afternoon the taxi takes Alline and me to pick up the Seat at the Hertz counter opposite the train station in Narbonne, a 19th century Beaux Arts building. I was here in 1998, enjoying lunch before changing trains for Saint Jean de Luz on the Atlantic coast . "Le Bistro du Chef", a restaurant in the station where Bill and I had lunch, was a Gault-Millau Guide notable restaurant then. (Henri Gault and Christian Millau were journalists who went into the restaurant reviewing business, championed nouvelle cuisine and created an alternative to the Michelin guides to restaurants.) Now Le Bistro du Chef is a packaged eatery. The dark-haired, rotund woman who made no fuss when we showed up with our suitcases asking if we could have lunch, later confiding that her summer had been loused up because of the weather, was long gone, replaced by a wide-eyed miss who knew nothing about the history of "Le Bistro du Chef". France won the World Cup that summer of 1998, the only good thing that happened during a year during which the French were particularly miserable, afflicted by a rumbling discontent called "la grogne". That was the year Jacques Chirac, the President, defeated in the legislative elections, had to accept Lionel Jospin, a Socialist, as his Prime Minister. Their "cohabitation", as it was called, did not last long.
Much later, Chirac was investigated for irregularities during his tenure as Mayor of Paris, but he is now remembered with nostalgia by many Frenchmen, first because he always thought that his foreign policy ought to present an alternative to America's; and also because everything about him suggested old France, proud and unbowed. He served two six-year terms before handing over to Nicolas Sarkozy in 2007. It is said that his wife, Bernadette and he, have always addressed each other using the formal "vous", which is something right out of a Balzac novel. When he dies (he is now eighty), old France will die with him, the present stamping out the past, just as the new owners of the new Bistro du Chef did the old.
Caunes-Minervois to Narbonne
and Back
I awake after a restless night, full of foreboding about the eventual resolution of the problems with the car. Nonetheless, I rise and suit up for another brief bicycle ride before planning something to do with Alline while we wait for the taxi to pick us up at 1:00 p.m. to take us to Narbonne to pick up the Seat "Lion".
Rather than riding in the direction of Peyriac and Rieux, as I normally do, when I pass the sign on the left for Notre Dame du Cros, I take it, thinking the road will be less crowded. It is indeed empty, and as I pedal, rises, until I am in sight of a long ridge. A bit further on, I see pasturage below and two horses, one a pinto, the other a golden brown, gamboling. Over a tiny bridge and on the left I see a roadside marker, a shrine with an image of the Mother and Child. Just a little bit farther and I see, nestled in the trees, the chapel of Notre Dame du Cros. I continue on until I reach the church, which is framed by an enormous white crucifix bearing the date "1886" on the right. Next to the church is a small, well-cared for house. The church itself has the date "1913" chiseled over one of its doors. I try to enter the church, but it is locked. It seems a secluded spot, seldom visited, although I note that a detailed marker explains that the little stream flowing beside the chapel is considered to have special powers and that every September 8 there is a pilgrimage to the spot.
I walk a few feet beyond the church, following the little path that continues downward beyond its steps and follows the stream. Just as I turn I meet a young fawn, all legs and eyes and ears walking up the path towards me. She looks at me with the happiest expression on her face until, suddenly realizing...my apart-ness...she startles. Her fright is such that, in her fear and haste, she loses her balance on those lovely legs and actually falls on her side before getting up again and...disappearing into the forest.
I ride back to 30 avenue des Minervois and suggest to Alline that we might walk to Notre Dame du Cros and back before we have to be picked up by the taxi. Indeed, we make the walk and reach the church, which I am surprised to discover is open. A lone woman prays at the ancient statue, another at a pew, while a youngish priest, dressed in the habit of a hermit, prepares the altar for daily Mass at 11:30 a.m. Several other people come in for Mass as well. Despite its remote location, Mass is said there every day including Sunday by the hermit, who also writes books, including one published just last year.
Notre Dame du Cros was a "dependence" of the abbey of Caunes-Minervois in the 9th century and has been renovated many times through the centuries. Inside it contains a primitive statue of the Virgin and child and paintings of significant skill. A photo of Francis I, the Pope, graces the entrance to the chapel. It is extraordinary peaceful inside. The website of the Mayor of Caunes-Minervois contains photographs of the chapel and observes that it "was secularized several times and valiantly resisted the outrages of the Revolution".
***
In the afternoon the taxi takes Alline and me to pick up the Seat at the Hertz counter opposite the train station in Narbonne, a 19th century Beaux Arts building. I was here in 1998, enjoying lunch before changing trains for Saint Jean de Luz on the Atlantic coast . "Le Bistro du Chef", a restaurant in the station where Bill and I had lunch, was a Gault-Millau Guide notable restaurant then. (Henri Gault and Christian Millau were journalists who went into the restaurant reviewing business, championed nouvelle cuisine and created an alternative to the Michelin guides to restaurants.) Now Le Bistro du Chef is a packaged eatery. The dark-haired, rotund woman who made no fuss when we showed up with our suitcases asking if we could have lunch, later confiding that her summer had been loused up because of the weather, was long gone, replaced by a wide-eyed miss who knew nothing about the history of "Le Bistro du Chef". France won the World Cup that summer of 1998, the only good thing that happened during a year during which the French were particularly miserable, afflicted by a rumbling discontent called "la grogne". That was the year Jacques Chirac, the President, defeated in the legislative elections, had to accept Lionel Jospin, a Socialist, as his Prime Minister. Their "cohabitation", as it was called, did not last long.
Much later, Chirac was investigated for irregularities during his tenure as Mayor of Paris, but he is now remembered with nostalgia by many Frenchmen, first because he always thought that his foreign policy ought to present an alternative to America's; and also because everything about him suggested old France, proud and unbowed. He served two six-year terms before handing over to Nicolas Sarkozy in 2007. It is said that his wife, Bernadette and he, have always addressed each other using the formal "vous", which is something right out of a Balzac novel. When he dies (he is now eighty), old France will die with him, the present stamping out the past, just as the new owners of the new Bistro du Chef did the old.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
June 19, 2013
Caunes-Minervois
Car Follies
The day dawns full of promise for continued adventures on the road, with the mechanic in Renault's Livignan-Corbières garage to call for an update on the timetable for conclusion of the battery replacement on the Clio and repair of the problem with the sensor on the remote control. Unfortunately, the news is not good: the battery for the Clio #4, the latest model in the Clio series, which just became available on the market, is unavailable. "Unavailable" in this case means, unavailable from any local dealer, unavailable at the factory. The date on which the suitable replacement battery might be available from the factory is unforeseen. There is nothing to do but to wait, Monsieur Christophe Pascual, the chief mechanic, tells me, fully sympathizing with the fix I am in.
I call the Renault emergency vehicle replacement number again, and realize, listening to the prompts, that I have been speaking to an office in Morocco all along, which explains the Spanish accent of the woman I spoke with yesterday. Now, however, I am speaking with a rather short-tempered man, who tells me that all he can tell me is that they are searching for an automatic transmission replacement vehicle as best they can, and there is nothing more to be done. When I lay out the problem of being stranded without a car, his voice rises. When I layout my worst fear --that I will be unable to get my guest to the Toulouse SNCF station Saturday-- he asks me what he expects him to do.
"I would like you to promise me that, in the worst-case situation, that you will provide a taxi to get my guest to the SNCF station in time to make her train to Paris."
"There is not an emergency vehicle replacement office that would make such a promise. We are not equipped to take such decisions," he says, his voice growing still more agitated.
"Excuse me, sir, but you are shouting at me, and I am offended--"
"No, no, no --I am not shouting at you. You are asking me to do something outside the area of my responsibilities. Your problem with your guest is your problem--"
"No, it is your problem--"
"No, I am doing my job--"
We are at an impasse.
"Well, then why are you calling me?" I sputter, worn out.
"To tell you that we are working on the problem. We will call you back when we can."
In Hinduism, it is said that to worry about that which cannot be helped is to be distracted from the task of living. Certainly, that would seem to also form part of the French philosophy. Notwithstanding, I now have several logistical problems on my hands which seem unsusceptible to solution immediately. No one at any of the phone numbers I call, save that of the Blagnac/Toulouse airport Europa Car agency where I picked up the Clio #4, makes any attempt to take responsibility for the situation I find myself in as a result of the breakdown of the vehicle.
Serge, the Europa Car representative at Blagnac/Toulouse airport, does something highly un-French, in telling me that he knows a couple of places that have automatic transmission cars in the Caunes-Minervois vicinity, and that he will call me back.
Alline and I go to have a coffee and while we are sitting in the café on Place de la Republique, the emergency vehicle replacement office calls: there is a Seat "Lion" model automatic transmission replacement vehicle available in Narbonne. We will be driven there by taxi not today, but tomorrow at 1:00 p.m., the vehicle being available at 2:00 p.m. No mention is made of the terms under which I must return the Seat, a Spanish car, should the Clio #4 be available in good working order. In fact, I wonder whether there is not a suggestion in the replacement agent's voice that the Seat "Lion" is to become my car for the summer.
What is more, no mention is made of any credit for the soon-to-be three days during the lease period I will be car-less. The French are a nervous people who do not react well when events take an unexpected turn, or in the face of the persistent demands for accountability I am making. Nonetheless, I now have the knowledge that there is a replacement vehicle available to me in Narbonne for so long as it takes to replace the Clio #4 battery, whenever that is.
Shortly after this, Serge calls, with the news that he can dispatch a larger automatic transmission vehicle, a Peugeot, to Carcassonne and have it ready by this afternoon. I tell him of the offer I have received from the emergency replacement department and ask him whether I can trust the Seat Lion.
"Oh, yes, that should be fine", he says, so I don't need to figure out how to get to Carcassone.
Serge is the only person in the chain of responsibility with whom I have dealt that makes any attempt to reassure me that the problem I have will be taken care of. Which is signal, and perplexing, too. If I am going to receive a replacement vehicle, one way or the other, why wouldn't the emergency replacement vehicle department people tell me that in the first place, even if it meant also telling me that it might take some time and that they are sorry for the inconvenience?
Some theorize that the difficulty the French have accepting blame goes back to the educational system. That system operates on what is known as "Theory' X'", rather than "Theory 'Y'" in Maslovian psychology. In "Theory 'X'", persons are motivated by pain and fear, in "Theory 'Y'" by the chance to realize their promise. In French schools, "Theory 'X'" has held sway since Jules Ferry guaranteed public education to all. That is to say that teachers are highly critical of students and can even give them a 0% grade. Which means you are a "Nul" --a zero, worthless. As a result, the French are highly sensitive to criticism, and blow up whenever any sort of claim is made that they have failed to live up to their responsibilities, whether as a merchant, a service provider, or any of the other categories to which some obligation might attach, including, sometimes, personal relationships.
The ramifications of this attitude, or mentalité, on France's ability to integrate itself globally are obvious. Due to that refractory sensibility, France is now viewed as the spoiler in the latest round of free-trade agreement talks, even by the European Commission, whose President, the Portuguese Jose-Manuel Barroso, has criticized France's insistence on the "cultural exception" that would take off the table negotiations about internet access and social networking, let alone subsidization of films and television programs by the French government.
Working out problems with non-French counter parties becomes a major source of headaches for both, as the French are viewed as unreasonably rigid, and do not explain their positions well; the French, on the other hand, refuse to take into account that what is acceptable in France does not go down easily beyond its borders.
So my little problem with the Clio #4 just seems one more indicia of why the country can be simultaneously so endearing and so frustrating.
Caunes-Minervois
Car Follies
The day dawns full of promise for continued adventures on the road, with the mechanic in Renault's Livignan-Corbières garage to call for an update on the timetable for conclusion of the battery replacement on the Clio and repair of the problem with the sensor on the remote control. Unfortunately, the news is not good: the battery for the Clio #4, the latest model in the Clio series, which just became available on the market, is unavailable. "Unavailable" in this case means, unavailable from any local dealer, unavailable at the factory. The date on which the suitable replacement battery might be available from the factory is unforeseen. There is nothing to do but to wait, Monsieur Christophe Pascual, the chief mechanic, tells me, fully sympathizing with the fix I am in.
I call the Renault emergency vehicle replacement number again, and realize, listening to the prompts, that I have been speaking to an office in Morocco all along, which explains the Spanish accent of the woman I spoke with yesterday. Now, however, I am speaking with a rather short-tempered man, who tells me that all he can tell me is that they are searching for an automatic transmission replacement vehicle as best they can, and there is nothing more to be done. When I lay out the problem of being stranded without a car, his voice rises. When I layout my worst fear --that I will be unable to get my guest to the Toulouse SNCF station Saturday-- he asks me what he expects him to do.
"I would like you to promise me that, in the worst-case situation, that you will provide a taxi to get my guest to the SNCF station in time to make her train to Paris."
"There is not an emergency vehicle replacement office that would make such a promise. We are not equipped to take such decisions," he says, his voice growing still more agitated.
"Excuse me, sir, but you are shouting at me, and I am offended--"
"No, no, no --I am not shouting at you. You are asking me to do something outside the area of my responsibilities. Your problem with your guest is your problem--"
"No, it is your problem--"
"No, I am doing my job--"
We are at an impasse.
"Well, then why are you calling me?" I sputter, worn out.
"To tell you that we are working on the problem. We will call you back when we can."
In Hinduism, it is said that to worry about that which cannot be helped is to be distracted from the task of living. Certainly, that would seem to also form part of the French philosophy. Notwithstanding, I now have several logistical problems on my hands which seem unsusceptible to solution immediately. No one at any of the phone numbers I call, save that of the Blagnac/Toulouse airport Europa Car agency where I picked up the Clio #4, makes any attempt to take responsibility for the situation I find myself in as a result of the breakdown of the vehicle.
Serge, the Europa Car representative at Blagnac/Toulouse airport, does something highly un-French, in telling me that he knows a couple of places that have automatic transmission cars in the Caunes-Minervois vicinity, and that he will call me back.
Alline and I go to have a coffee and while we are sitting in the café on Place de la Republique, the emergency vehicle replacement office calls: there is a Seat "Lion" model automatic transmission replacement vehicle available in Narbonne. We will be driven there by taxi not today, but tomorrow at 1:00 p.m., the vehicle being available at 2:00 p.m. No mention is made of the terms under which I must return the Seat, a Spanish car, should the Clio #4 be available in good working order. In fact, I wonder whether there is not a suggestion in the replacement agent's voice that the Seat "Lion" is to become my car for the summer.
What is more, no mention is made of any credit for the soon-to-be three days during the lease period I will be car-less. The French are a nervous people who do not react well when events take an unexpected turn, or in the face of the persistent demands for accountability I am making. Nonetheless, I now have the knowledge that there is a replacement vehicle available to me in Narbonne for so long as it takes to replace the Clio #4 battery, whenever that is.
Shortly after this, Serge calls, with the news that he can dispatch a larger automatic transmission vehicle, a Peugeot, to Carcassonne and have it ready by this afternoon. I tell him of the offer I have received from the emergency replacement department and ask him whether I can trust the Seat Lion.
"Oh, yes, that should be fine", he says, so I don't need to figure out how to get to Carcassone.
Serge is the only person in the chain of responsibility with whom I have dealt that makes any attempt to reassure me that the problem I have will be taken care of. Which is signal, and perplexing, too. If I am going to receive a replacement vehicle, one way or the other, why wouldn't the emergency replacement vehicle department people tell me that in the first place, even if it meant also telling me that it might take some time and that they are sorry for the inconvenience?
Some theorize that the difficulty the French have accepting blame goes back to the educational system. That system operates on what is known as "Theory' X'", rather than "Theory 'Y'" in Maslovian psychology. In "Theory 'X'", persons are motivated by pain and fear, in "Theory 'Y'" by the chance to realize their promise. In French schools, "Theory 'X'" has held sway since Jules Ferry guaranteed public education to all. That is to say that teachers are highly critical of students and can even give them a 0% grade. Which means you are a "Nul" --a zero, worthless. As a result, the French are highly sensitive to criticism, and blow up whenever any sort of claim is made that they have failed to live up to their responsibilities, whether as a merchant, a service provider, or any of the other categories to which some obligation might attach, including, sometimes, personal relationships.
The ramifications of this attitude, or mentalité, on France's ability to integrate itself globally are obvious. Due to that refractory sensibility, France is now viewed as the spoiler in the latest round of free-trade agreement talks, even by the European Commission, whose President, the Portuguese Jose-Manuel Barroso, has criticized France's insistence on the "cultural exception" that would take off the table negotiations about internet access and social networking, let alone subsidization of films and television programs by the French government.
Working out problems with non-French counter parties becomes a major source of headaches for both, as the French are viewed as unreasonably rigid, and do not explain their positions well; the French, on the other hand, refuse to take into account that what is acceptable in France does not go down easily beyond its borders.
So my little problem with the Clio #4 just seems one more indicia of why the country can be simultaneously so endearing and so frustrating.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Caunes-Minervois
Bumps in the road
When visitors arrive, it is the custom in Western societies not to slaughter a fatted calf or to light bonfires and beat the drums, but to show them around. That, at least, was what I had planned to do when my neighbor, Alline, arrived from New York Monday afternoon.
I picked her up at Toulouse airport at 4:28, her connecting flight from Charles de Gaulle having been delayed three and a half hours. Still, misguidedly relying on the GPS and the Queen's English, it took three, instead of two hours to arrive in Caunes. Abandon all hope, ye who rely on the GPS alone, it were better that you had only used a map than that you rested your bosom on a digital device.
Disillusioned, tired, I took out the Michelin map of Languedoc-Roussillon and l'Herault, and marked the route to Carcassonne, where I planned to conduct Alline Tuesday afternoon, after a tour of Caunes. I also marked the route to Pézenas and to Mèze and Sète, to which we would go Thursday; to Toulouse, where I would have to take Alline Saturday, if she could not pick up a connection there from Carcassonne. Tomorrow, Tuesday, would be another day and a different story.
The tour of the Benedictine abbey and Caunes' oldest ruelles, which took place under sunny skies, was all I hoped my guest would want, as was the café crème we enjoyed on Place de la Republique. We returned to the parking by the little bridge over the Double Argent (the "Double Money"), the stream that cuts through Caunes, and walked toward the gold Clio, glinting in the sun.
I pulled out the remote control ("télécommande"), touched the button to open the vehicle, and --nothing happened. I took out the second remote control key I had been given at the Renault leasing agency at Blagnac/Toulouse Airport and tried it: again, nothing. I returned to the house and got the leasing papers, fishing out the emergency telephone number. To their credit, the leasing company's 24-hour customer service personnel in Paris went into action immediately, promising me a replacement vehicle while my Clio was being returned to action, assuring that I would not be without a car during the term of my lease..
To make a long story short, after two hours, a mechanic and a truck arrived and carried off my week-old Clio. The problem, the mechanic said, was that the sensor associated with the battery was not functioning. More troubling, the repairman (dépanneur) did not have a battery for the new Clio model. In two days the car ought to be fixed, he said. Not to worry, though, because a replacement vehicle would be provided me. And, I and Alline would be driven to the nearest pick-up location, in Carcassonne, at no charge.
The only problem was that the Renault pick-up location in Carcassonne has no automatic transmission cars, only manual, and I don't drive a stick shift. The customer service personnel had failed to look at the contract to verify what kind of car I leased. Worse, there are very few stick-shift cars available. Finally, the customer service personnel informed me that as it was unlikely that the garage at Livignan-Corbières to which my Clio was taken for repair would be the pick-up location for my replacement vehicle, I would therefore have to pick up the Clio in one place and return the replacement vehicle in another. As I had already used up one of the two taxi rides to which my contract entitled me going to Carcassonne, I would not have to pay to be driven to pick up the Clio, but I could not return the replacement vehicle there, and at my own expense would have to pay to be returned to where I left the repaired Clio. I would have to pay for what would probably be a very long and expensive taxi ride even though the replacement service made the mistake of taking me to Carcassonne.
By the time all this had revealed itself, it was six o'clock in Carcassonne. It seemed only right to use the opportunity to visit the Cité, as we had originally intended, yet it was about a mile and a half away, on the other side of the traffic circle directly in front of us on which cars were converging at a steady speed. Across the street was a self-serve car wash where someone might take pity on us and give us directions to the Cité. Getting there would require running across the highway and arriving on the other side before a car exited or reached the circle. It suddenly seemed as though Alline and I were characters in a French road picture, a sort of PG version of Going Places, Bertrand Blier's film about hitchhiking thugs.
1,2...3 --we ran across the highway to the car wash and walked around to its back, where a woman in a pink sweater and a blond ponytail was power washing her car. Despite saying "Mademoiselle" several times, it was only when we walked right up to her that she took any notice. Before we had even gotten out a few words, in an English accent she told us, "I'm on a timer!" --and went back to her work.
Another woman pulled up and I happened to walk up to her just as she was pulling out her wallet. She was briefly startled, but rolled down her window. She was French, and got out of her car to help us. Just as she was explaining to us the road into town, my cellphone rang: it was the replacement vehicle department telling me I would not get a replacement vehicle tonight, but tomorrow.
Having been told previously that I would have to pay for taxi rides, I reiterated her colleague's diktat, which she reversed. I told her that as we were in Carcassonne, where we had intended to go before our day was spoiled, could we be picked up in about two hours and returned home? No problem, she said.
Meanwhile, fortune struck: while Alline was getting directions into the Citè, a young Turkish restauranteur who runs a kebab-house in Carcassonne stopped at the car wash. Hearing of our plight, he offered to take us to the Cité. In we jumped and made it to the Cité, which is always open. There is an irony in that, as for most of its active history, it was supposed to be unbreachable. That was, however before mass tourism arrived.
Unlike my earlier visit, in the middle of the day last week, the Cité was almost deserted at seven-thirty in the evening. It was possible to take a photo of the famous towers at the end of the long walk by the drawbridge without a single tourist claiming part of the panorama. Many of the shops were closed, those that were open were closing up, and few of the restaurants were doing any business. The church of Saint Nazaire, which last time had been closed to visitors on account of a wedding, was open and empty. The sky was a pale slate blue and the wind blew a refreshing breeze: it was serendipity to be able to enjoy La Cité this way.
After the visit, I called the replacement service to have a taxi pick us up and take us back to Caunes. The woman I had spoken to earlier, who spoke French with a Spanish accent, rolling her "r"s, asked what I needed. I explained that I and my guest were now stuck in Carcassonne, having been dropped there because of an earlier mistake in assuming that a stick-shift car would serve me as a replacement vehicle.
"Do you want me to put you in a hotel for the night?" she asked, I think, seriously.
"No, that would be too expensive. Just get us a taxi and take us back home to Caunes-Minervois."
About twenty minutes later, a taxi, driven by a young man who spoke both English and French and whose taxi was very fast, picked us up and took us home. On the way there, I explained the complications posed by picking up a replacement vehicle in one place, and having to pick up the repaired car in another.
"We have an expression which is apt in this case", he said. "Sometimes someone proposes a solution to a problem that will work, but on hearing it, someone else won't accept it and raises all sorts of other problems. When that happens, in France, we say,
'Why make things simple, when they can be complicated?'"
Caunes-Minervois
Bumps in the road
When visitors arrive, it is the custom in Western societies not to slaughter a fatted calf or to light bonfires and beat the drums, but to show them around. That, at least, was what I had planned to do when my neighbor, Alline, arrived from New York Monday afternoon.
I picked her up at Toulouse airport at 4:28, her connecting flight from Charles de Gaulle having been delayed three and a half hours. Still, misguidedly relying on the GPS and the Queen's English, it took three, instead of two hours to arrive in Caunes. Abandon all hope, ye who rely on the GPS alone, it were better that you had only used a map than that you rested your bosom on a digital device.
Disillusioned, tired, I took out the Michelin map of Languedoc-Roussillon and l'Herault, and marked the route to Carcassonne, where I planned to conduct Alline Tuesday afternoon, after a tour of Caunes. I also marked the route to Pézenas and to Mèze and Sète, to which we would go Thursday; to Toulouse, where I would have to take Alline Saturday, if she could not pick up a connection there from Carcassonne. Tomorrow, Tuesday, would be another day and a different story.
The tour of the Benedictine abbey and Caunes' oldest ruelles, which took place under sunny skies, was all I hoped my guest would want, as was the café crème we enjoyed on Place de la Republique. We returned to the parking by the little bridge over the Double Argent (the "Double Money"), the stream that cuts through Caunes, and walked toward the gold Clio, glinting in the sun.
I pulled out the remote control ("télécommande"), touched the button to open the vehicle, and --nothing happened. I took out the second remote control key I had been given at the Renault leasing agency at Blagnac/Toulouse Airport and tried it: again, nothing. I returned to the house and got the leasing papers, fishing out the emergency telephone number. To their credit, the leasing company's 24-hour customer service personnel in Paris went into action immediately, promising me a replacement vehicle while my Clio was being returned to action, assuring that I would not be without a car during the term of my lease..
To make a long story short, after two hours, a mechanic and a truck arrived and carried off my week-old Clio. The problem, the mechanic said, was that the sensor associated with the battery was not functioning. More troubling, the repairman (dépanneur) did not have a battery for the new Clio model. In two days the car ought to be fixed, he said. Not to worry, though, because a replacement vehicle would be provided me. And, I and Alline would be driven to the nearest pick-up location, in Carcassonne, at no charge.
The only problem was that the Renault pick-up location in Carcassonne has no automatic transmission cars, only manual, and I don't drive a stick shift. The customer service personnel had failed to look at the contract to verify what kind of car I leased. Worse, there are very few stick-shift cars available. Finally, the customer service personnel informed me that as it was unlikely that the garage at Livignan-Corbières to which my Clio was taken for repair would be the pick-up location for my replacement vehicle, I would therefore have to pick up the Clio in one place and return the replacement vehicle in another. As I had already used up one of the two taxi rides to which my contract entitled me going to Carcassonne, I would not have to pay to be driven to pick up the Clio, but I could not return the replacement vehicle there, and at my own expense would have to pay to be returned to where I left the repaired Clio. I would have to pay for what would probably be a very long and expensive taxi ride even though the replacement service made the mistake of taking me to Carcassonne.
By the time all this had revealed itself, it was six o'clock in Carcassonne. It seemed only right to use the opportunity to visit the Cité, as we had originally intended, yet it was about a mile and a half away, on the other side of the traffic circle directly in front of us on which cars were converging at a steady speed. Across the street was a self-serve car wash where someone might take pity on us and give us directions to the Cité. Getting there would require running across the highway and arriving on the other side before a car exited or reached the circle. It suddenly seemed as though Alline and I were characters in a French road picture, a sort of PG version of Going Places, Bertrand Blier's film about hitchhiking thugs.
1,2...3 --we ran across the highway to the car wash and walked around to its back, where a woman in a pink sweater and a blond ponytail was power washing her car. Despite saying "Mademoiselle" several times, it was only when we walked right up to her that she took any notice. Before we had even gotten out a few words, in an English accent she told us, "I'm on a timer!" --and went back to her work.
Another woman pulled up and I happened to walk up to her just as she was pulling out her wallet. She was briefly startled, but rolled down her window. She was French, and got out of her car to help us. Just as she was explaining to us the road into town, my cellphone rang: it was the replacement vehicle department telling me I would not get a replacement vehicle tonight, but tomorrow.
Having been told previously that I would have to pay for taxi rides, I reiterated her colleague's diktat, which she reversed. I told her that as we were in Carcassonne, where we had intended to go before our day was spoiled, could we be picked up in about two hours and returned home? No problem, she said.
Meanwhile, fortune struck: while Alline was getting directions into the Citè, a young Turkish restauranteur who runs a kebab-house in Carcassonne stopped at the car wash. Hearing of our plight, he offered to take us to the Cité. In we jumped and made it to the Cité, which is always open. There is an irony in that, as for most of its active history, it was supposed to be unbreachable. That was, however before mass tourism arrived.
Unlike my earlier visit, in the middle of the day last week, the Cité was almost deserted at seven-thirty in the evening. It was possible to take a photo of the famous towers at the end of the long walk by the drawbridge without a single tourist claiming part of the panorama. Many of the shops were closed, those that were open were closing up, and few of the restaurants were doing any business. The church of Saint Nazaire, which last time had been closed to visitors on account of a wedding, was open and empty. The sky was a pale slate blue and the wind blew a refreshing breeze: it was serendipity to be able to enjoy La Cité this way.
After the visit, I called the replacement service to have a taxi pick us up and take us back to Caunes. The woman I had spoken to earlier, who spoke French with a Spanish accent, rolling her "r"s, asked what I needed. I explained that I and my guest were now stuck in Carcassonne, having been dropped there because of an earlier mistake in assuming that a stick-shift car would serve me as a replacement vehicle.
"Do you want me to put you in a hotel for the night?" she asked, I think, seriously.
"No, that would be too expensive. Just get us a taxi and take us back home to Caunes-Minervois."
About twenty minutes later, a taxi, driven by a young man who spoke both English and French and whose taxi was very fast, picked us up and took us home. On the way there, I explained the complications posed by picking up a replacement vehicle in one place, and having to pick up the repaired car in another.
"We have an expression which is apt in this case", he said. "Sometimes someone proposes a solution to a problem that will work, but on hearing it, someone else won't accept it and raises all sorts of other problems. When that happens, in France, we say,
'Why make things simple, when they can be complicated?'"
Sunday, June 16, 2013
June 17, 2013
Special Election
Drama in Villeneuve-sur-Lot
(Lot et Garonne)
Thanks to Jérome Cahuzac, plastic surgeon, former député from Villeneuve-sur-Lot in Lot-Garonne, and former Junior Minister for the Budget at the Ministry of the Economy, Finance and External Trade,
the Front Nationale has come in second in the special election to replace him. Following his disclosure of a Swiss bank account and other tax maneuvers ill-befitting a member of the Socialist Party, Cahuzac was expelled from the Socialist Party and a special election called for today. Analyses of the electoral results vary. Some observers argue the election marks confirmation of the Front Nationale's status as the third party that will govern France in the future, others see in the second place results for the Front Nationale an anti-Hollande vote, rather than a pro-Front Nationale vote. These analysts believe that Front Nationale voters in Villeneuf-sur-Lot will vote UMP in the second round, next Sunday. The UMP took about 28% of the vote, the Front National 26% and the Socialist Party 23%, with about 44% of registered voters participating, 12% fewer than in the presidential election in 2012.
Last year the Front Nationale's voters denied Nicolas Sarkozy re-election and made François Hollande's quinquennat --the French word for the President's five year term-- possible. Hollande is faulted for failing to jump-start the lagging French economy and has his hands full, without having allies like Cahuzac, whose use of a Swiss bank account to shelter income was legal under French law. However, the French are funny about money: after his election victory, Nicholas Sarkozy was widely pilloried for having dinner with his allies at Fouquet's, a wildly expensive restaurant in Paris, on election night. That dinner, and a trip to Malta aboard the yacht of a multi-millionaire friend, dogged him throughout his quinquennat.
In brief, to be a politican and a friend of the wealthy; or to be a politican and financially astute, inevitably leads to political excommunication in France. The Socialist Party rules prohibiting Swiss bank accounts are nothing more than a pre-emptive attempt to prevent just the sort of class-dividing gauche caviar (literally, "Caviar Leftist") tax-avoiding activities that cost the Socialist Party the election tonight.
Funnily enough, very soon the well-known satyr, libertine and sexual harasser of women, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, is expected to receive a non-lieu decision from the court in Lille that is considering whether he knowingly consorted with prostitutes provided him by wealthy Lillois hoping to curry favor with the former head of the International Monetary Fund ("IMF"). All charges will be dropped by the prosecutor if the Court rules there are no grounds to prosecute, and Strauss-Kahn (who was beyond the reach of any court when he was head of the IMF, an international organization) will be able to return to civilian life less in all likelihood less besmirched than Jérome Cahuzac.
In fact, the French find Strass-Kahn's history amusing, and are accepting of his declaration that he is a libertine, part of a long tradition in France. The French also find his prowess under cross-examination a marvel: when asked whether he knew the women at a swap-party he attended in Lille were prostitutes, he replied that, as the women were (like everyone at the party including Strauss-Kahn) nude, he could not form a conclusion as to whether their solicitation of sex was driven by lust or money.
In short, it would be easier for François Hollande (who became President because Strauss-Kahn was accused of raping a chambermaid in New York and disqualified himself from running) to defend Strauss-Kahn than to defend Jérome Cahuzac, whose actions were within the law. The French are funny about money.
Special Election
Drama in Villeneuve-sur-Lot
(Lot et Garonne)
Thanks to Jérome Cahuzac, plastic surgeon, former député from Villeneuve-sur-Lot in Lot-Garonne, and former Junior Minister for the Budget at the Ministry of the Economy, Finance and External Trade,
the Front Nationale has come in second in the special election to replace him. Following his disclosure of a Swiss bank account and other tax maneuvers ill-befitting a member of the Socialist Party, Cahuzac was expelled from the Socialist Party and a special election called for today. Analyses of the electoral results vary. Some observers argue the election marks confirmation of the Front Nationale's status as the third party that will govern France in the future, others see in the second place results for the Front Nationale an anti-Hollande vote, rather than a pro-Front Nationale vote. These analysts believe that Front Nationale voters in Villeneuf-sur-Lot will vote UMP in the second round, next Sunday. The UMP took about 28% of the vote, the Front National 26% and the Socialist Party 23%, with about 44% of registered voters participating, 12% fewer than in the presidential election in 2012.
Last year the Front Nationale's voters denied Nicolas Sarkozy re-election and made François Hollande's quinquennat --the French word for the President's five year term-- possible. Hollande is faulted for failing to jump-start the lagging French economy and has his hands full, without having allies like Cahuzac, whose use of a Swiss bank account to shelter income was legal under French law. However, the French are funny about money: after his election victory, Nicholas Sarkozy was widely pilloried for having dinner with his allies at Fouquet's, a wildly expensive restaurant in Paris, on election night. That dinner, and a trip to Malta aboard the yacht of a multi-millionaire friend, dogged him throughout his quinquennat.
In brief, to be a politican and a friend of the wealthy; or to be a politican and financially astute, inevitably leads to political excommunication in France. The Socialist Party rules prohibiting Swiss bank accounts are nothing more than a pre-emptive attempt to prevent just the sort of class-dividing gauche caviar (literally, "Caviar Leftist") tax-avoiding activities that cost the Socialist Party the election tonight.
Funnily enough, very soon the well-known satyr, libertine and sexual harasser of women, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, is expected to receive a non-lieu decision from the court in Lille that is considering whether he knowingly consorted with prostitutes provided him by wealthy Lillois hoping to curry favor with the former head of the International Monetary Fund ("IMF"). All charges will be dropped by the prosecutor if the Court rules there are no grounds to prosecute, and Strauss-Kahn (who was beyond the reach of any court when he was head of the IMF, an international organization) will be able to return to civilian life less in all likelihood less besmirched than Jérome Cahuzac.
In fact, the French find Strass-Kahn's history amusing, and are accepting of his declaration that he is a libertine, part of a long tradition in France. The French also find his prowess under cross-examination a marvel: when asked whether he knew the women at a swap-party he attended in Lille were prostitutes, he replied that, as the women were (like everyone at the party including Strauss-Kahn) nude, he could not form a conclusion as to whether their solicitation of sex was driven by lust or money.
In short, it would be easier for François Hollande (who became President because Strauss-Kahn was accused of raping a chambermaid in New York and disqualified himself from running) to defend Strauss-Kahn than to defend Jérome Cahuzac, whose actions were within the law. The French are funny about money.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Mèze to Caunes:
The GPS is not my friend.
I have made arrangements to return to Caunes shortly after the 11 o'clock Sunday Mass at St. Hilaire, the church in Mèze. Francine supplies me with a map of the town and I walk from her house to the fishing port and up along the rue du Port, then to City Hall and the covered market, which are next to St. Hilaire. Along the way I pass the stands of the Sunday market vendors, selling similar items to those I saw in Pézenas yesterday, although the Mèze market is much smaller.
St. Hilaire is more a chapel than a church, one room with an apse whose bottom half is formed of stained glass panels of Jesus, Mary, St. Hilaire, of course, and other saints, all rendered life-sized. Above the stained glass panels, Gothic arches rise, making the church seem older than its XIV-century building date. The bells are actually rung, in the morning and evening every day, and again just before the eleven o'clock Mass.
The parishoners are mostly of retirement age. Neatly turned out in clothes that have been carefully washed and ironed, the Mèzois all share a certain way of holding themselves, which could not be farther from the elegant Parisian stance of having one or both arms akimbo. These elderly men and women's shoulders are curved slightly forward, backs rounded a bit in the posture of people who have spent their lives putting their backs into their work. The arms and back slightly forward suggest a willingness to throw oneself into a task, and no fear of hard work. It is a way of holding oneself that suggests a life spent in manual labor and a resulting hardiness.
The priests who celebrate the Mass are outwardly dissimilar to their parishoners, although they seem of about the same age. The principal celebrant, dressed in a white alb, and a bright green Kente cloth stole, looks like an old hippie: tall, his long face, prominent nose, shoulder-length hair and long moustache, suggest a man who had a conversion experience, but did not want to throw off all the remnants of his old life. His co-celebrant is shorter, with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, his alb garnished with a stole woven of cotton in a plaid, draped and pinned diagonally across the alb, the way a Scottish highlander would wear it. The name of the parish is Notre Dame de la Sourire --Our Lady of the Smile-- a name that seems to fit the place and the parishoners well, as they seem content and at ease with themselves.
After a trip through the market for purposes of buying a few of the famous melons from Cavaihlon --they are one of the main ingredients in the production of Calissons d'Aix, a French confection similar to marzipan, made under the A.O.C. system by six producers in the vicinity of Aix-en-Provence-- I make it back to Francine's. After confirming my return next Sunday, if not before, we program the GPS to avoid the toll roads and the highways, sticking to the routes nationales and local roads. It is one o'clock when I leave, and Francine figures that, as it takes her one hour and twenty minutes to make it to Caunes, I ought to be there in ninety minutes.
As it turns out, it takes another three hours, although the trip is, for the most part, less fraught than Friday's. All goes well until I reach the outskirts of Bèziers. The GPS has me enter Bèziers and make the circuit of Place Jean Jaurès. There is always a principal square in every city in France named after Jean Jaurès, a father of the French Socialist Party, assassinated in 1914. Beziers' is undistinguished. I see that the cafés around the square have Arabic names, and only men sitting at them. Simultaneously, I see the first woman I have seen in a "hijab" and "chador" since arriving in the Midi of France, crossing the square.
The GPS sends me down a slim hill cobbled with squarish tiles: walking in front of me are two skinny adolescent boys naked from the waist up and dressed in bright bermudas and basketball sneakers. The street is narrow and I do not want to interfere with them, but they continue to walk down the hill in front of my car, rather than moving to the narrow sidewalk --although they must hear the sound of my car, the only other thing on the street, slowly navigating the rough paving.
I beep lightly and as I approach, they get up on the sidewalk, looking right into the car and at me as I pass. I raise my left hand in a gesture of greeting and mouth "Merci!" and am well-away a few seconds later. Their skins are caramel-colored and their eyes golden, their razored hair black: their families' origins are certainly somewhere in North Africa. They could care less about my "Merci" --I am treading on their territory, driving through the banlieue, or ghetto of Bèziers.
I leave Béziers and pass the enormous prison on Bèziers' outskirts, continuing on past a part of the Canal du Midi. I glimpse the giant water tower by the road towards Mazamet and Carcassonne, a major landmark. I see a sign for "Capestang" and take it. Before too long, I am coming towards a gigantic Gothic church dominating the landscape in every direction, massive, unadorned and severe: I might be heading towards Oz. As matter of fact, though, Capestang's church, built from the 12th to the 15th centuries, was the summer residence of the archbishops of Narbonne. As it housed a college of archbishops, it is called a "collegiate" church.
I have been driving during the lunch hour to avoid traffic, but once I turn onto the Capestang road, the Black Mountains spread out on my right, and it is almost like having the road all to myself . I drive under giant allées that stretch a good quarter of a mile, the trees a good thirty feet high, their leaves growing towards each other, a canopy of cool green. If there is one aspect of the landscape that could not be more quintessentially French to me, it is the allées. They are everywhere in the landscape because they were planted to give the farmers a place to get into the shade and out of the sun, practicality and beauty united. I am beginning to feel not far from home, and more relaxed, after my adventure in Béziers.
The GPS now sends me onto roads farmers use: indeed, I see a pair of them working in the broiling sun in the middle of the afternoon, baling hay. Most of the time, though, I am riding along an empty landscape, open fields of vineyards on both sides of me. The GPS is a mystifying device: I cannot get the machine to produce an overview of my route, and sometimes it misleads me, as when it fails to register a cut in a rotary that is not paved, but could be taken for an exit. I have to turn back a number of times, because I have counted the cuts as exits and thrown myself off-course. I watch the map on the screen to try to get my bearings, but when the Englishwoman's voice tells me "Enter the roundabout and take the third exit"; or, " Take the first right in 800 meters, then left, I am too often undone. Tomorrow, when I have to go to Toulouse in the morning, I had better program the device to speak American English and use feet instead of metros, to see if there is any improvement, even if I like the plummy English.
I inadvertently extend my trip by driving towards Olonzac, rather than La Redorte. Now in the area of the Minervois, the little towns I pass --Pepieux and Trausse-- are dead quiet, as is Caunes, when I finally get there. The sun is so strong, no one goes out. At seven o'clock the abbey bells ring, although I think they are electronically sounded. It is still very light outside, but the wind is so strong it shakes the wooden shutters. I wonder whether high winds are a normal feature of the landscape in the Minervois.
Mèze to Caunes:
The GPS is not my friend.
I have made arrangements to return to Caunes shortly after the 11 o'clock Sunday Mass at St. Hilaire, the church in Mèze. Francine supplies me with a map of the town and I walk from her house to the fishing port and up along the rue du Port, then to City Hall and the covered market, which are next to St. Hilaire. Along the way I pass the stands of the Sunday market vendors, selling similar items to those I saw in Pézenas yesterday, although the Mèze market is much smaller.
St. Hilaire is more a chapel than a church, one room with an apse whose bottom half is formed of stained glass panels of Jesus, Mary, St. Hilaire, of course, and other saints, all rendered life-sized. Above the stained glass panels, Gothic arches rise, making the church seem older than its XIV-century building date. The bells are actually rung, in the morning and evening every day, and again just before the eleven o'clock Mass.
The parishoners are mostly of retirement age. Neatly turned out in clothes that have been carefully washed and ironed, the Mèzois all share a certain way of holding themselves, which could not be farther from the elegant Parisian stance of having one or both arms akimbo. These elderly men and women's shoulders are curved slightly forward, backs rounded a bit in the posture of people who have spent their lives putting their backs into their work. The arms and back slightly forward suggest a willingness to throw oneself into a task, and no fear of hard work. It is a way of holding oneself that suggests a life spent in manual labor and a resulting hardiness.
The priests who celebrate the Mass are outwardly dissimilar to their parishoners, although they seem of about the same age. The principal celebrant, dressed in a white alb, and a bright green Kente cloth stole, looks like an old hippie: tall, his long face, prominent nose, shoulder-length hair and long moustache, suggest a man who had a conversion experience, but did not want to throw off all the remnants of his old life. His co-celebrant is shorter, with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, his alb garnished with a stole woven of cotton in a plaid, draped and pinned diagonally across the alb, the way a Scottish highlander would wear it. The name of the parish is Notre Dame de la Sourire --Our Lady of the Smile-- a name that seems to fit the place and the parishoners well, as they seem content and at ease with themselves.
After a trip through the market for purposes of buying a few of the famous melons from Cavaihlon --they are one of the main ingredients in the production of Calissons d'Aix, a French confection similar to marzipan, made under the A.O.C. system by six producers in the vicinity of Aix-en-Provence-- I make it back to Francine's. After confirming my return next Sunday, if not before, we program the GPS to avoid the toll roads and the highways, sticking to the routes nationales and local roads. It is one o'clock when I leave, and Francine figures that, as it takes her one hour and twenty minutes to make it to Caunes, I ought to be there in ninety minutes.
As it turns out, it takes another three hours, although the trip is, for the most part, less fraught than Friday's. All goes well until I reach the outskirts of Bèziers. The GPS has me enter Bèziers and make the circuit of Place Jean Jaurès. There is always a principal square in every city in France named after Jean Jaurès, a father of the French Socialist Party, assassinated in 1914. Beziers' is undistinguished. I see that the cafés around the square have Arabic names, and only men sitting at them. Simultaneously, I see the first woman I have seen in a "hijab" and "chador" since arriving in the Midi of France, crossing the square.
The GPS sends me down a slim hill cobbled with squarish tiles: walking in front of me are two skinny adolescent boys naked from the waist up and dressed in bright bermudas and basketball sneakers. The street is narrow and I do not want to interfere with them, but they continue to walk down the hill in front of my car, rather than moving to the narrow sidewalk --although they must hear the sound of my car, the only other thing on the street, slowly navigating the rough paving.
I beep lightly and as I approach, they get up on the sidewalk, looking right into the car and at me as I pass. I raise my left hand in a gesture of greeting and mouth "Merci!" and am well-away a few seconds later. Their skins are caramel-colored and their eyes golden, their razored hair black: their families' origins are certainly somewhere in North Africa. They could care less about my "Merci" --I am treading on their territory, driving through the banlieue, or ghetto of Bèziers.
I leave Béziers and pass the enormous prison on Bèziers' outskirts, continuing on past a part of the Canal du Midi. I glimpse the giant water tower by the road towards Mazamet and Carcassonne, a major landmark. I see a sign for "Capestang" and take it. Before too long, I am coming towards a gigantic Gothic church dominating the landscape in every direction, massive, unadorned and severe: I might be heading towards Oz. As matter of fact, though, Capestang's church, built from the 12th to the 15th centuries, was the summer residence of the archbishops of Narbonne. As it housed a college of archbishops, it is called a "collegiate" church.
I have been driving during the lunch hour to avoid traffic, but once I turn onto the Capestang road, the Black Mountains spread out on my right, and it is almost like having the road all to myself . I drive under giant allées that stretch a good quarter of a mile, the trees a good thirty feet high, their leaves growing towards each other, a canopy of cool green. If there is one aspect of the landscape that could not be more quintessentially French to me, it is the allées. They are everywhere in the landscape because they were planted to give the farmers a place to get into the shade and out of the sun, practicality and beauty united. I am beginning to feel not far from home, and more relaxed, after my adventure in Béziers.
The GPS now sends me onto roads farmers use: indeed, I see a pair of them working in the broiling sun in the middle of the afternoon, baling hay. Most of the time, though, I am riding along an empty landscape, open fields of vineyards on both sides of me. The GPS is a mystifying device: I cannot get the machine to produce an overview of my route, and sometimes it misleads me, as when it fails to register a cut in a rotary that is not paved, but could be taken for an exit. I have to turn back a number of times, because I have counted the cuts as exits and thrown myself off-course. I watch the map on the screen to try to get my bearings, but when the Englishwoman's voice tells me "Enter the roundabout and take the third exit"; or, " Take the first right in 800 meters, then left, I am too often undone. Tomorrow, when I have to go to Toulouse in the morning, I had better program the device to speak American English and use feet instead of metros, to see if there is any improvement, even if I like the plummy English.
I inadvertently extend my trip by driving towards Olonzac, rather than La Redorte. Now in the area of the Minervois, the little towns I pass --Pepieux and Trausse-- are dead quiet, as is Caunes, when I finally get there. The sun is so strong, no one goes out. At seven o'clock the abbey bells ring, although I think they are electronically sounded. It is still very light outside, but the wind is so strong it shakes the wooden shutters. I wonder whether high winds are a normal feature of the landscape in the Minervois.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
The Saturday Market at Pézenas
Francine has planned a trip to Pèzenas, an old town associated with Molière, for Saturday. I will drive and Francine will be my monitor d'école d'auto --my driving coach. A natural driver, she urges me, in various ways to refine my performance behind the wheel, explaining that it might be a good idea not to lift my foot off the accelerator so abruptly, to give the car some gas after I have made it half-way around a turn, not to turn the car wheels when backing out without ever-so-slowly moving, so as to save wear and tear on the tires. I foresee a summer of drives to Mèze from Caunes, which would not be the worse thing in the world.
I look at the Michelin map of Languedoc-Rousillon and see all the errors I made yesterday. In addition, when I set my route on the GPS, I neglected to eliminate the prompt that makes mandatory the use of toll roads and payment for the use thereof. I did everything wrong but drive into Bèziers, a town notoriously difficult to drive in and out of.
We make it to Pèzenas later than advisable for purposes of finding parking in the open-air municipal lots near the start of the market. Every space is taken and only when someone leaves is their an opportunity to take a space. Francine and I drive around five or six times, wedged between the lines of cars on each side of the three rows of parking. Finally we find a spot at the very end of one of the rows. An older woman, squat and lined, looking like she stepped out of one of Lartigue's photos of working people enjoying a picnic, kindly offers to stand in the spot she and her husband are vacating --when, just as she is about to reach it, a young man and woman drive their car ahead of mine and try to claim the space.
A general furor ensues, Francine (who has stepped out of the car), the woman and I all raising a hue and cry. The young man is indifferent and after shouting something back, slides in. I roll down my window and after reviewing in my mind my limited repertoire of French curses, I opt for the worst thing I can think of saying in French that isn't utterly vulgar:
Soyez maudit! Be cursed!
Later, after Francine and I finally find parking, I ask Francine whether I used the right French phrase:
"You did, but no French person would ever say something as elegant as that when cursing someone."
***
The market is colorful and fun, particularly the stands for vintage clothes and soft furnishings, which sell table and bed coverings, nightshirts and blouses made in heavy cotton, which are a collector's item in Paris and elsewhere. Here they are sold at 5 Euros each, a fraction of their price at the Porte de Vanves in Paris, let alone in New York, where they run a few hundred dollars.
Even more lovely than the Saturday bazaar's offerings are the 17th century buildings with their vaulted interiors. We meet a Syrian man from Damascus who runs his own silk weaving enterprise, turning out exquisite scarves in various weaving techniques. These are silks made individually and every bit as luxurious as those produced in St. Gallen, the Swiss capital of the fine textile industry. The weaver, a very friendly man, left Damascus when the Assads took over. He represents the latest generation in a family of weavers that dates back two hundred years. The quality of their products is such that his father helped weave the coronation robe of the Queen Elizabeth II in 1953
The Saturday Market at Pézenas
Francine has planned a trip to Pèzenas, an old town associated with Molière, for Saturday. I will drive and Francine will be my monitor d'école d'auto --my driving coach. A natural driver, she urges me, in various ways to refine my performance behind the wheel, explaining that it might be a good idea not to lift my foot off the accelerator so abruptly, to give the car some gas after I have made it half-way around a turn, not to turn the car wheels when backing out without ever-so-slowly moving, so as to save wear and tear on the tires. I foresee a summer of drives to Mèze from Caunes, which would not be the worse thing in the world.
I look at the Michelin map of Languedoc-Rousillon and see all the errors I made yesterday. In addition, when I set my route on the GPS, I neglected to eliminate the prompt that makes mandatory the use of toll roads and payment for the use thereof. I did everything wrong but drive into Bèziers, a town notoriously difficult to drive in and out of.
We make it to Pèzenas later than advisable for purposes of finding parking in the open-air municipal lots near the start of the market. Every space is taken and only when someone leaves is their an opportunity to take a space. Francine and I drive around five or six times, wedged between the lines of cars on each side of the three rows of parking. Finally we find a spot at the very end of one of the rows. An older woman, squat and lined, looking like she stepped out of one of Lartigue's photos of working people enjoying a picnic, kindly offers to stand in the spot she and her husband are vacating --when, just as she is about to reach it, a young man and woman drive their car ahead of mine and try to claim the space.
A general furor ensues, Francine (who has stepped out of the car), the woman and I all raising a hue and cry. The young man is indifferent and after shouting something back, slides in. I roll down my window and after reviewing in my mind my limited repertoire of French curses, I opt for the worst thing I can think of saying in French that isn't utterly vulgar:
Soyez maudit! Be cursed!
Later, after Francine and I finally find parking, I ask Francine whether I used the right French phrase:
"You did, but no French person would ever say something as elegant as that when cursing someone."
***
The market is colorful and fun, particularly the stands for vintage clothes and soft furnishings, which sell table and bed coverings, nightshirts and blouses made in heavy cotton, which are a collector's item in Paris and elsewhere. Here they are sold at 5 Euros each, a fraction of their price at the Porte de Vanves in Paris, let alone in New York, where they run a few hundred dollars.
Even more lovely than the Saturday bazaar's offerings are the 17th century buildings with their vaulted interiors. We meet a Syrian man from Damascus who runs his own silk weaving enterprise, turning out exquisite scarves in various weaving techniques. These are silks made individually and every bit as luxurious as those produced in St. Gallen, the Swiss capital of the fine textile industry. The weaver, a very friendly man, left Damascus when the Assads took over. He represents the latest generation in a family of weavers that dates back two hundred years. The quality of their products is such that his father helped weave the coronation robe of the Queen Elizabeth II in 1953
Friday, June 14, 2013
June 14, 2013
Hairpin curves and a fright
I am due at the Mèze home of Francine, a friend of Judith and Louis', by one o'clock. She has invited me for the weekend so that I can famliarize myself with her house before I actually house-sit, about a week from now. I rise by seven-thirty, organize final preparations for the drive to Mèze, and even have time for a short bicycle ride.
I set the GPS for Francine's address and start my trip by driving downhill out of Caunes at 9:45 a.m.. The GPS tells me to turn right at the sign for "Citou", which leads me into the hills and up a country road that continues to mount, more precipitously with each kilometer. I reach Citou, five kilometers away, a hamlet known as 'the sweet onion capital of France". Citou proper is five houses, past which I drive within a minute. Continuing to follow the road, it starts to climb at an even steeper grade. It is at that point that I lose my nerve and my faith in the GPS.
Below me is the Citou farmers' tillage. Indeed, on my left I overlook a drop that would seriously compromise my life on earth, sending me right into the fields. On my right is a stone wall made of small stones. To turn around and go back the way I came, I must drive downhill in reverse without scratching the Clio chassis against the stone wall, simultaneously avoiding a plunge into the onion fields.
It must take the longest fifteen minutes of my life to ease the car down the incline inch-by-inch, ever-so-slowly. Finally, I have moved fifteen feet downhill in reverse to a tiny cut on the right into which I reverse the car slowly until I have enough clearance to be able to go forward then turn back to Caunes. The distance between Caunes and Citou is 5 kilometers, but it might be as far as Everest for purposes of my mental health.
I make it back to Caunes, this time leaving the village from the opposite direction. The GPS now re-set, I drive in the direction of Peyriac alongside the vineyards. However, this route takes me. far afield as well: I drive through the backroads a considerable while before I pick up the toll road to Narbonne. Thinking I have now set out on the desired route, I happily note that a sign says I have crossed from the Aude département into L'Herault, where Mèze is located.
My happiness is short-lived, though. I am near Narbonne before I see an exit marked "Sète", and I have been on the road for two hours without a sign of Mèze. Once I take the exit for Sète, it takes me another hour to make it to Mèze, which I reach by 12:45 p.m. Francine, hears my car pull in and comes out to greet me. She is well-aware that I have been seriously off-route. When I tell her about the toll road, she explains that the toll road takes longer than driving the local roads. I am just glad that I have survived the journey.
***
After lunch, Francine drives me to Sète, and I appreciate why it took so long to get from Sète to Mèze. On a map, Sète looks like a barrier island: one side of it faces the Mediterranean, the other Mèze. In fact Mèze, with 11,000 people; and Sète, with 42,000 are each located on opposite shores of an inland lake, the Bassin de Thau, the second largest in France. It is also called Étang de Thau.
This area, like the adjoining Camargue, which forms the delta of the River Rhone, were for many years plagued by malaria-carrying mosquitoes. In the 1960s the government made a successful effort to eradicate them, and in the following decades sought to develop the area as an alternative to the overcrowded and expensive Provençal and Riviera coasts. Sète, however, is an old town, after Marseille, France's second-largest port for commercial tuna fishing.
Sète is known for its canals, which are small and not so different from those of Venice. The town was built on Mont St. Clair, at whose top there is a chapel dedicated to the Virgin of La Sallette and a giant cross. On the 19th of each month there is a pilgrimage from Sète harbor to the chapel. Adjoining the chapel is an overlook that offers breathtaking views of the Bassin de Thau, Mèze, Sète, Marseillan and Bouzigues. The three towns are centers of oyster production in France, with Bouziques being particularly renowned for its shellfish. In the Bassin de Thau the oyster beds -hundreds of squares of wood lying in the inland lake of Thau, can be easily seen from Mont St. Clair's heights. Ninety minutes from Caunes by car, the area's climate is Mediterranean, with winter temperatures during the day averaging between 37 and 44 degrees Farenheit in the coldest months, December and January, explaining why it has become a preferred retirement destination.
Hairpin curves and a fright
I am due at the Mèze home of Francine, a friend of Judith and Louis', by one o'clock. She has invited me for the weekend so that I can famliarize myself with her house before I actually house-sit, about a week from now. I rise by seven-thirty, organize final preparations for the drive to Mèze, and even have time for a short bicycle ride.
I set the GPS for Francine's address and start my trip by driving downhill out of Caunes at 9:45 a.m.. The GPS tells me to turn right at the sign for "Citou", which leads me into the hills and up a country road that continues to mount, more precipitously with each kilometer. I reach Citou, five kilometers away, a hamlet known as 'the sweet onion capital of France". Citou proper is five houses, past which I drive within a minute. Continuing to follow the road, it starts to climb at an even steeper grade. It is at that point that I lose my nerve and my faith in the GPS.
Below me is the Citou farmers' tillage. Indeed, on my left I overlook a drop that would seriously compromise my life on earth, sending me right into the fields. On my right is a stone wall made of small stones. To turn around and go back the way I came, I must drive downhill in reverse without scratching the Clio chassis against the stone wall, simultaneously avoiding a plunge into the onion fields.
It must take the longest fifteen minutes of my life to ease the car down the incline inch-by-inch, ever-so-slowly. Finally, I have moved fifteen feet downhill in reverse to a tiny cut on the right into which I reverse the car slowly until I have enough clearance to be able to go forward then turn back to Caunes. The distance between Caunes and Citou is 5 kilometers, but it might be as far as Everest for purposes of my mental health.
I make it back to Caunes, this time leaving the village from the opposite direction. The GPS now re-set, I drive in the direction of Peyriac alongside the vineyards. However, this route takes me. far afield as well: I drive through the backroads a considerable while before I pick up the toll road to Narbonne. Thinking I have now set out on the desired route, I happily note that a sign says I have crossed from the Aude département into L'Herault, where Mèze is located.
My happiness is short-lived, though. I am near Narbonne before I see an exit marked "Sète", and I have been on the road for two hours without a sign of Mèze. Once I take the exit for Sète, it takes me another hour to make it to Mèze, which I reach by 12:45 p.m. Francine, hears my car pull in and comes out to greet me. She is well-aware that I have been seriously off-route. When I tell her about the toll road, she explains that the toll road takes longer than driving the local roads. I am just glad that I have survived the journey.
***
After lunch, Francine drives me to Sète, and I appreciate why it took so long to get from Sète to Mèze. On a map, Sète looks like a barrier island: one side of it faces the Mediterranean, the other Mèze. In fact Mèze, with 11,000 people; and Sète, with 42,000 are each located on opposite shores of an inland lake, the Bassin de Thau, the second largest in France. It is also called Étang de Thau.
This area, like the adjoining Camargue, which forms the delta of the River Rhone, were for many years plagued by malaria-carrying mosquitoes. In the 1960s the government made a successful effort to eradicate them, and in the following decades sought to develop the area as an alternative to the overcrowded and expensive Provençal and Riviera coasts. Sète, however, is an old town, after Marseille, France's second-largest port for commercial tuna fishing.
Sète is known for its canals, which are small and not so different from those of Venice. The town was built on Mont St. Clair, at whose top there is a chapel dedicated to the Virgin of La Sallette and a giant cross. On the 19th of each month there is a pilgrimage from Sète harbor to the chapel. Adjoining the chapel is an overlook that offers breathtaking views of the Bassin de Thau, Mèze, Sète, Marseillan and Bouzigues. The three towns are centers of oyster production in France, with Bouziques being particularly renowned for its shellfish. In the Bassin de Thau the oyster beds -hundreds of squares of wood lying in the inland lake of Thau, can be easily seen from Mont St. Clair's heights. Ninety minutes from Caunes by car, the area's climate is Mediterranean, with winter temperatures during the day averaging between 37 and 44 degrees Farenheit in the coldest months, December and January, explaining why it has become a preferred retirement destination.
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