Christmas Preparations and Random Ramblings

Storefront decorations

Stores are starting to dress themselves in holiday finery.  It takes some time for the city to get ready for the holiday, so they've been working for the past week or two stringing lights across the streets and decorating the parks.   The rides for La Magie de Noel (Christmas Magic) are being assembled and the "midway" attractions are in place along the edge of the Bastide.  The tradition here is to have sort of a carnival with rides for the children and small little huts where one can buy local crafts, regional specialties like nougat and of course, hot wine and hot chocolate.  They are mostly closed during the day and then in the evenings, families come to enjoy the atmosphere and maybe do a little shopping. On the weekends, there are activities scheduled:  concerts or medieval re-enactments, markets centered around the church, as they would have been centuries and centuries ago,  selling artisan breads, candies, foie gras, The ice rink is nearly completed and Neptune has a full complement of "icicles." 

One of the "big" rides being assembled by the Canal

I like that the French enjoy things in due season.  They aren't rushing Christmas, but they have been working hard getting ready--practicing carols, dance moves, getting the torches ready for next weekend's big kick-off, getting the publicity to the papers and on-line.  The recent terror attacks and resulting state of emergency have caused some locales to scale back or cancel their Christmas markets, but sleepy little Carcassonne isn't affected, other than there will probably be an increased police presence.  (As a side note, a planned demonstration in Paris to draw attention to the COP21 Climate Change meeting was cancelled.  The organizers put out pairs of shoes instead....hundreds of pairs of them where people would have stood. Very effective)

Getting one of the "huts" ready

I can't decide whether or not to participate in the torch parade this year.  On one hand, it would be great fun.  On the other, I wouldn't get to actually SEE it, and, trust me, it is well worth seeing.  

Properly "iced" Neptune and skating rink takes shape

One side effect of the ice rink and the huts at Carnot is that the Saturday market is now wall to wall people, or shopping sac to shopping sac....I ran into Monsieur le Mayor--literally.  This is not our first, or even our second encounter.  He did recognize me, which is a good thing, I think.  I haven't really figured out what my purpose is for being here, but I am convinced that somehow the mayor and the city government figure into it. 

Gambetta wears its lights

Bought a classic leather purse at the Arab market for only 10 Euros--one of the vendors was having a "liquidation" sale.  And I got a pair of Nordic looking house-socks to keep my feet warm,  Fortunately I found a pair of men's-sized for these big feet of mine.  Getting shoes here is a definite problem for me.  Thankfully  onlineshoes.com ships world-wide.

The weather has warmed up just a little and there was no wind today. Before we know it, the solstice will be upon us and we will begin our ride back toward the sun.  Perversely, December 21 or 22, whichever is the solstice is one of my favorite days here--the darkness has done its worst and now we are headed back to the light.  The ski stations will open next weekend and it looks as though there will be plenty of snow.  As I headed out of the city limits today with a friend, the snow covered Pyrenees gleamed.

Getting the appetizer plates ready

Bake sale a la francaise

I participated in my first church pot-luck; what an interesting experience that was.  However, I was surrounded by French speakers and seated next to Bertrand, who is sort of bi-lingual.  He regaled his lunch companions with very bad jokes...and I felt like I spoke more French than English (his wife, Elise, relishes any opportunity to speak English) and since the meal lasted 3 hours, I got quite the French lessons. I could actually see improvement from the beginning of the meal to the end.  I learned a couple of things.  First, not all French women can cook.  Secondly, try not to get seated in the middle of a long table; the food never quite leaves the ends of the table.  Thirdly, it is perfectly acceptable to use the same glass for wine, water, Orangina and coffee. (just not all at the same time)

And lastly, oeufs mayonnaise (eggs mayonnaise) sounds better than it tastes. And most importantly--French people do not eat the skins of their boiled or baked potatoes.  But Americans DO!

The main difference between American and French church suppers

Cooking in a Foreign Language

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  How odd to celebrate that most American of holidays, (and my very favorite holiday) in a country for which it is just another day.  Naturally Thanksgiving thoughts turn to cooking, especially the traditional foods that evoke memories of Novembers past.

Turkey and the trimmings

The first challenge was to find the correct words in French for the ingredients I would need.  I have learned the hard way to check my dictionary before I set out for the market; it will save time and misunderstandings (like being shown a shower cap instead of a bicycle helmet) in the long run.  Thus armed, I set off for cranberries, ground cloves and the all-important turkey breast.  I had invited a couple of my neighbors here at 34 Rue du Pont Vieux for a sort of traditional American meal.

I was unsuccessful in finding either the cranberries (dried berries don't count) or the ground cloves (I found plenty of whole ones), but I knew I could count on Michel for the bird.  Apparently whole turkeys are rather rare here.  Maybe there are some in the frozen food sections of the bigger markets, but I didn't look there.  I stopped in and after a long consultation with not only my wonderful butcher, but his father, the retired butcher and several of the customers present, we decided that I would get a turkey thigh and a turkey breast. That would accommodate those who prefer light or dark meat. However the turkey breast is not what we find in the US...it looks like an over-sized boneless, skinless chicken breast.  

The filet, rolled, larded, and tied

When I stopped in on Thursday morning to pick it up (remember everything was open because Thanksgiving's NOT a holiday here), Michel had chosen a nice thigh (it weighed a kilo--2,2 pounds, so how big must the bird have been that produced it?) and we talked about the size of the filet--he told me I needed only a morceau--a piece.  He then asked if I wanted it prepared like a roast. I asked him, "Please," and he proceeded to stuff and wrap it with some fat strips and tie it.  It looked like a pork tenderloin.  So, my American Thanksgiving dinner centerpiece was une cuisse de dinde, and un filet de dinde.  Much to the delight of the customers there, we had an impromptu lesson in French-English--he had a customer who'd come in asking for turkey and Michel didn't know what he wanted.  Then I asked about the difference between un canard and une canette....and we talked about how to monitor my oven which cooks fast and hot.  It was a real community discussion and everyone there wanted to help the poor stupid American.  I loved it!

Cuisse de dinde and filet de dinde

Not only is the language for the ingredients different, but so are the quantities in any recipes--grams, or soup spoons... and so are the temperatures.  I am trying to get used to this oven, which of course is calibrated in Centigrade. 185 degrees without the convection feature is considerably cooler and slower than 185 degrees with upper and lower convection. So, after spending a huge chunk of change on the meat, I watched it like a hawk; I cooked the dark meat a little longer than the breast, and glory of glories, I found my meat thermometer!!  I was able to make sure it was all done and not overcooked.  You know how dry white meat turkey can get!

In the oven

I did not have all the fat and carb heavy side dishes--no mashed potatoes and gravy, no stuffing.  But some mashed yam studded with pecans and fresh asparagus rounded out the meal more than adequately.  I found a loaf of specialty bread, sort of like brioche, from my favorite baker that was every bit as tasty as dinner rolls.  Great red wine, apple crisp with chantilly (unsweetened whipped cream) coffee and interesting conversation rounded out the meal.  

I also brought out the good silver--I didn't pay to ship it here to have it sit forever in a drawer--and crystal candle holders.  My table was as lovely as I could make it without going out and buying items I really don't need and have no place to store.  

Setting the table

Now it's the morning after and I have cleared the carnage; the dishwasher is running, the baking pan is scrubbed clean, the leftovers have been resting overnight in the fridge waiting for lunch.  A cold turkey sandwich on buttered bread will complete the holiday feasting.  I may take a couple of turkey sandwiches to Michel and his crew.  What is Thanksgiving for if not for sharing our bounty and blessings?  

All in all, it wasn't exactly like a US Thanksgiving, but it was splendid.  Does it really matter what language we use to give thanks and live in gratitude? 

Saturday Mornings

Someone asked me this week, "What is the best thing about having gone to Carcassonne?"  That's a hard question to answer, because it's a combination of offerings that make living here such a joy.  However, if I lost Saturday market, I would be very sad indeed.

Mushrooms, wine, walnuts from this morning's market

Sometimes I don't even have to make a purchase; it's enough to greet the vendors with whom I am developing a rapport.  When I got up this morning, it felt like a beef bourguignon day, so I had a mission.  I had none of the needed ingredients except for salt and pepper, garlic and onions.  I found the most beautiful mushrooms I have ever seen--three great huge ones for one Euro. I also bought some walnuts.  I have recently re-discovered the pleasure of cracking them.  I don't swear that they taste better than the already shelled ones.  I do swear that cracking them makes me slow down and appreciate them more. Into my shopping sac went  carrots, burgundy wine, and of course, from Michel, the beef.  His shop is always the last stop on my circuit, as I can make the meat my last purchase, and am only a dozen steps away from my front door and my refrigerator.  Today they didn't have the "correct" cut out on display, but fear not, he went into the back and apparently killed a steer or cut the needed meat from a side of beef.  He brought it in on a fierce-looking meathook, slapped it on the block and cut me a piece to my specifications.  They were quite busy, but even so, found time to chat with me and the other customers while they worked.  I find that true of all the vendors at the market.  They have time to talk to me, even with my limited French.  It's more about making a customer than a sale.  

Lovely flowers and fresh produce

I also wanted to see what things I could buy at the market to send back to the States as gifts.  Sending foodstuffs would be like sending a little of the land to my friends.  Maybe by tasting they could smell the earth, and plants and flowers and the sun....and really, does anyone need a made-in-China-color-changing keychain of the Tour d-Eiffel?  Trying to figure out what foodstuffs will clear US Customs takes some time.  I would so love to send some of these wonderful vegetables, or some Chantclair apples, but I don't think they'll make the cut.  I think candy and pastries are okay, but I suspect by the time a bag of fresh croissants made its way to Oregon, the bread would not present a good representation of the boulanger's artistry.  Even so, I think I was fairly successful in finding gifts that say "Carcassonne," and not, "Made in China."

1 Euro's worth of mushrooms!

It's raining here, intermittently.  What a good day to stay inside, read, write, maybe nap!  I did most of my household chores yesterday, so my environment is tidy and serene.  I will get the beef stew underway and then I will read the paper and putter.  It's no longer Saturday morning; rather it's now afternoon.  Lunch time!

Some of this morning's bounty

Normalcy

Looking south toward the Porte des Jacobins

Yes, it has been one crazy couple of days.  I have been uncharacteristically glued to the television; I am like one of those ghouls who can't look away from an accident.  I'm not proud of it, but there you are.

I suppose if I were a driver and was on the highway a lot, I might notice more changes in my daily routine, but so far, things are "normal."  I did go to the peace rally yesterday, and saw some people there that I know.  It was short and to the point.  After reading the instructions on-line about complying with "State of Emergency" procedures, I have begun carrying my passport.  I don't think I look dangerous, but I am not the one who gets to make that determination, right? That's about the extent of any effects of the events touching my sleepy little town.

 The country is in three days of mourning, but schools are open. Museums and some national monuments are closed, but local offices are open.   Even before Friday night's horror, last week was already boulversee, (turned upside down) : the buses were on strike from Monday until Thursday, there was Armistice Day holiday; and oh yeah, on Friday, all of the DOCTORS were on strike.  The news reports have not once mentioned that little detail.  I do not know if that was the case in Paris on Friday, (I thought it was nationwide to protest a change in the health care law) but it was indeed the case here. 

Looking north toward the train station

But shopping needs to be done, clothes need to be washed and dried, apple crisp needs to be made.  I got some tidying done yesterday, and the apple crisp is delicious.  A load of darks is churning as I write this and I am thinking about getting a few Christmas gifts ready for the post office.  Given how long it takes for a gift to arrive at its destination in the US (3 to 4 times as long as it takes one to arrive from the US to here) I need to be getting this in order.  The living have to keep living, even after being stunned by such senseless violence.  

After the rally yesterday, it was such a nice day that I decided to go in search of the little huts for the annual Christmas market.  I am sure it won't be at Gambetta, as it was when I was here in 2013.  I saw no signs of them nor did I see any sign of the Christmas tree I so loved.  It may yet be too early.  But the city has installed some of its decorations--they look like oversized wicker or starched string balls that interior decorators favor.  They have a solar system kind of look to them, and I think they have lights inside of them. But we will have to wait until the torch parade to find out--that's when the city turns on the lights for Christmas decorations.  

On the corner at Carnot

So yes, Carcassonne was not oblivious to the events in Paris, but we are all trying to live our lives as normally as possible.

Looking up

 If anyone is interested, the link below will take you to the coverage of the rally at Carnot.  I am in photo #6 and appear several times in the video. 

http://www.lindependant.fr/2015/11/15/p-o-et-aude-hommages-spontanes-ce-dimanche,2114249.phpsible. 

No Words are Enough

What can I possibly say?  It was late last night and I was watching Arte's (it's a French-German cooperation tv show, no commercials, like PBS in the US) production of The Marriage of Figaro.  I had been looking forward to it all week. Near the end of the opera, the crawl appeared, but in true fashion, I didn't notice it right away.  Then my Facebook page started pinging...I changed channels and the horror unfolded on the screen.

I was unable to sleep last night; like all those ghouls who can't tear themselves away from the scene of an accident, I could not tear myself away from the television.  So I have not been firing on all cylinders today, what with only about 3 hours of sleep.  

I kept to together until I entered the tabac and saw Marie...then I teared up.  The horror, the waste, the evil, the cowardice...I cannot wrap my mind around it.  I don't think I am alone in this inability to process the events of last night.

In many respects France is like one great big small town.  Paris belongs to all of us, even those who reside in sleepy cities, or tiny villages hundreds of kilometers from the City of Light.  Paris belongs to the world by virtue of the more than 6 million visitors who, if only for a few passing hours, walk the cobbled streets and stroll along the Seine, taking memories back home with them.  I understand that all of France and most of the world are stunned and grieving.

So many people have e-mailed me or sent me Facebook messages or sent me Skype messages to make sure that I didn't take myself off to a Death Metal concert in Paris for the weekend.  That scenario would be highly unlikely, but my going to a soccer game is within the realm of possibility.  I am very touched by all of the goodwill. I am safe here in sleepy little Carcassonne, but my heart, my spirit, is very, very sad.

Afternoon Delights

Along the Aude

It was impossible to stay indoors yesterday afternoon.  The temperature was perfect for a walk, and there was no wind. I strolled along the Aude, from the foot of my street up to beyond the dam and the swimming pool.  The walkway was busy but not overcrowded.  For once, I was able to shush the chatter that is constantly in my mind and just drink in and appreciate what my senses were experiencing.

No wind made for good reflections

There was no wind.  That in itself is rather remarkable.  Usually the wind is either blowing the water back upriver in the Aude or hurrying it along downstream.  Yesterday, parts of the river were so still as to look like a small lake. 

A prehistoric walking stick?

Aude trips over some rocks

As I walked uphill and into some shade, I smelled my childhood.  There is a certain tang, a certain brittleness of dry fallen deciduous leaves in autumn that just is not present in the Pacific Northwest.  Growing up, I would tromp all over our 13 acres, which, to a little girl, seemed like a vast forest.  My favorite time of year was in the fall when the colors gleamed, and there was this certain smell.  I am afraid I lack the skills to describe it, but those who have experienced it will know what I mean.

Hurry hurry downstream

There seemed to be a hint of burning leaves in that smell.  It's not an unpleasant smell--not like a forest fire.  Having been present for the Biscuit Fire in 2003 and even this summer in Brookings for the awful smoky conditions, I have grounds for comparison.  As I got closer to the Paicherou, I could see that there was indeed a small pile of burning leaves.  It brought back memories, let me tell you.

Burning leaves

Trees lit from within

And the light was incredible  A stand of trees on the south side of the river were lit from within.  Bt the most delightful sight was up high--the leaves there caught the light and the afternoon zephyrs; it looked exactly like they were made of fine gold--they glistened and glittered.  I am so sorry to say that I was unable to capture that shine with my camera.  I stood entranced, and my looking up with the camera made other people stop and look up, too.  Everyone knows that old practical joke, only in this case, there was something amazing to watch.

They looked like real gold

Lazy autumn reflections

I saw that most beautiful woman I have ever seen.  She was undoubtedly in her mid to late 70's and had taken good care of herself during her tour of the planet.  She could not have been over five feet tall--she barely came up to my shoulder when we passed on the sidewalk.  If her waist was even 20 inches around, I would be stunned, and she cold not have weighed more than 90 pounds.  She was wearing a black dress with a red belt, and sported a wonderful hat with one side brim upturned and a feather on the other.  Her presence far out-sized her physical stature.  I almost asked her if I could take her photo, and now I regret not doing so. 

Scarlet vines on the towers

As I returned to the starting point, I saw another woman communing with the pigeons and the ducks.  Another lady told me that the woman we were both observing could "parler oiseaux"  (Speak bird).  She certainly had a connection with them, but I suspect it has something to do with the food she brings every day for them.  

The woman who told me about Bird Woman and I walked on together.  Her name is Lucienne, and she is celebrating her first day of retirement TODAY.  She was a nurse, born and raised and lived her life here in Carcassonne.  We have agreed to walk together; maybe I will have made a new friend.

A reminder to look up

The woman who speaks bird

All of this sensory input took a little over an hour.  I could have sworn that it was longer, since I felt like I was drinking in so much of my surroundings.  And yet, it felt like just a few moments.  Time plays funny tricks on my mind when I am living fully in the moment.  Yesterday afternoon's stroll was just that--fully present and open to what the universe has to give.  It's an afternoon I won't soon forget.

Armistice Day 2015

WWI monument

Young men receiving medals

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month--the end to unimaginable butchery, staggering loss of life, and to what end?  Here in Carcassonne, this day is given over to a ceremony of remembering.  There will be no pre-Christmas sales, no huge marketing campaign for cars or televisions.  The stores are closed.  The streets are quiet.  Last night's television offerings were heavily weighted with movies and documentaries about the Great War. This day is much more than a day off of work or school.  

Flags shine in the November sun

Army

Do I think that every citizen here watched the ceremony at the WWI memorial this morning?  Of course not, but it was well attended.  Do I think that every citizen here is engaged in a day of reflection about war and power and waste?  Of course not, but enough are so occupied.  What's crucial is that the up and coming generation is involved with the ceremonies and if only briefly, think about the past.  

So very young

I am convinced that there were no WWI veterans in the crowd today.  They'd have to be--what?--nearly 120 years old.  I think they have all long since passed into the next world.  So the people in attendance today weren't commemorating something they themselves actually witnessed.  They are there because of the stories of their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers. 

Paratroopers stationed here in Carcassonne

I am embarrassed by my ignorance of WWI.  Thanks to my time in France two years ago, I know more than I did, but am still woefully uneducated about the whole affair.  I do know this, however:  the carnage was unimaginable.  And I know that many--maybe most-- of the worst battles were fought on French soil.  That has to shape the national psyche. 

What struck me today, as it did two years ago when I first witnessed this ceremony, was how this community's memorial involved its young people.  Teens from one of the local schools read the names of the local boys killed in battle.  After every single name, the school choir spoke in unison, "Mort pour la France,"  (Died for France).  It gave me shivers.  These teens know about Armistice Day and will know forever. 

Gendarmes are represented

Little elementary school children accompanied local officials as they placed flowers on the monument.  They will remember.  It is an honor to be chosen; proud parents and relatives capture the moment in photographs. 

Another group is represented

Elementary school children help place flowers

I have seen several posts on my Facebook page today lamenting the fact that in the US, our school children do not know anything about Armistice Day other than it's a day off from classes.  That is our own fault.  We cannot leave it to the schools to teach this; we as communities must insist that the meaning of our national holidays not be lost in the heap of consumer advertising.  We have to show that we have not forgotten, and put our money where our mouths are.  We need to make meaningful memorials and give our future leaders ways to participate that will imprint upon them the importance of Independence Day, Armistice Day and Memorial Day.  Maybe that's easier to do when the battles have been on your own soil, but we cannot use the lack of local bloody fields as an excuse to shirk our duty to keep memories alive.  We just have to do better.

Choir members

There is a saying about those who cannot (or will not) remember history are condemned to repeat it.  If another war on such a scale ever takes place here, it will not be because the citizens here have forgotten.

Multi-generational participation

Greve

Post season berries gone to seed

Greve...it's not a word many Americans know, even in English--Strike!  I am old enough to remember threatened strikes at GM or Ford by the United Auto Workers, and the invocation of the Taft-Hartley Act, way back when. Remember the air traffic controllers' strike back in the 80's?  I know there was, if not exactly a strike, a work slow-down at the West Coast docks within the past year, but aside from a few local school districts in Oregon,  the concept and inconveniences of a strike are unfamiliar to most.

During my time in France, it's a word and an action I have come to know, if not well, at least better.  My friends the Moffits had a first hand encounter with one when they tried to leave Carcassonne to start the next leg of their European journey.  The trains out of Carcassonne were on strike, which resulted in an extra night's stay in Carcassonne and hastily amended travel plans.

Berry leaves showing autumn color

Now we are in the midst of a bus strike, which has affected a lot of us here in the city.  School children who usually ride the city buses to school are getting an unexpected holiday from classes.  Shoppers are being denied the wonders of Leclerc and the big commercial zone stores, because without a car, it's too far to walk to get that giant sized package of Coke or paper towels. (Or in the case of one man I see regularly, his one hot meal a day, maybe his only meal for the day at the Leclerc cafeteria.) There's a lesson there, guys:  learn how to heat up a can of soup or scramble an egg!

I knew the strike was scheduled for yesterday, Monday.  While my speaking skills are still infantile, I can read, and I never miss the daily paper, so thankfully I knew better than to try to get out to the SFR store yesterday.  I need to recharge my mobile phone and discuss their spotty service, and maybe change over to Orange.  (Another mobile provider here in France) But I need to take the bus to get to any SFR or Orange store, now that they have all moved their stores out to the commercial zones.

But the strikers have told us no service until at least Thursday.  The city looks and sounds deserted without the bus traffic, so perhaps today is a great day for a bike ride.  I had two great conversations--one at the bus stop and the other at the bus office. Sometimes I am amazed that I, a foreigner in this town, know what's going on and some locals do not. Thank you, La Depeche, for keeping me up to date.  

Sunlight from the underside of a berry leaf

I ended up going to Monoprix for my laundry soap and toothpaste, and after I factor in the time and the cost of the bus, the price wasn't that much more expensive.  I got in a nice walk, stopped at the market for some apples to make a crisp this afternoon, chatted with Marie at the tabac, and exchanged hellos with my friends at the boucherie.  Who needs a bus, really?

And yes, I know the photos and the narrative are unrelated.  But these photos are more interesting than photos of deserted bus stops.  I took these along the fence row up at la Cite last week.  

To Do or To Be?

It's raining a little here today.  That is a stretch of the truth.  Living in the Pacific Northwest through several El Ninos has redefined rain for me.  It's almost just a mist here today, although the streets and the cars are wet and there's the occasional plop along the drip line of storefront awnings.  I suppose my planned bike ride along the canal is out of the question today.  It seems the weather is an ally in my lesson to stay indoors and do as little as possible.  Just being is difficult.

Surrounding countryside from the ramparts of the Cite earlier in the week

After an all-too familiar sleepless night (although I have to confess those nights are becoming fewer and more sporadic) I overslept, badly.  I woke at the time I would normally have left the house for church, so, again, I am truant.  But those four hours of sleep were welcomed, even if they were chock full of odd dreams.  I already started this day with little to show for it, except for a vague feeling of guilt.

This guilt makes me wonder about this compulsive need to "accomplish" something every day.  Does reading an entire novel count as accomplishment?  My grandmother, whose influence never leaves me, would say absolutely not. However, that is what I intend to do this day.  I have been to the boulangerie for my mini-campaillette, to the tabac for the Sunday paper, I have a pot of my favorite cauliflower-cider soup simmering for my dinner and the kitchen is cleaned.  I sorted through photos of my day at the Cite for posting in another blog. Oh yes, and I wrote this.

Looking northeast at the Bastide from the Cite ramparts.  St Vincent's Church

One thing I have noticed about buying my produce from the market--I pay much closer attention to how thoroughly I clean it.  The slug I discovered in my choufleur tried crawling out of the garbage bag in which I deposited him.  I can add taking out the recyclables and the garbage to my list of accomplishments today.  

Bon dimanche a tous!  (Happy Sunday, everyone.)

Le Dome to the left--I live on the next street over, to the right.  Sunny day earlier this week.