Reveillon

Greenery for sale

This morning's market had quite a festive feel to it.  Tonight is Reveillon, the eve of the new year.  People today were stocking up on cheeses, nuts, dried fruit and goodies for tonight's fete. I found lots of vendors selling greenery, especially mistletoe.  I expected that for Christmas, but it seems to be at the forefront here for New Year's Eve celebrations.  It has been my personal experience that the French need no aids to exchanging kisses!

Mistletoe hung in a fir tree at the florist on Rue Verdun

In this morning's La Depeche, the headlines read,  Faire la fete, malgre tout....have a party in spite of everything.  And the French do exactly that!  No matter what happened in 2015, we will celebrate 2016.  The accompanying article talks about how to cultivate the art of living....

1. Continue the love of the party--eat, drink, dance, celebrate.  As the writer points out, those are the same traditions of our prehistoric ancestors.

2.  Savor the art of the table.  Eat like the French, especially at lunch, which takes time.  Learn to cook and share balanced, delicious food.  It matters. 

3.  Practice humor.  The writer quotes Umberto Eco--"humor kills fear."  And laughing promotes the production of oxytocine, the hormone of happiness.

4.  Reject intolerance.  France is multi-colored and multi-faceted.  

5.  Practice love, compassion, empathy, care.  One can follow this advice even if one believes the heavens are empty of the Divine.

6.  Be proud of France.

The local fruiter, stocked with good things

Bread for sale at the market

I think this is pretty darned good advice.  As for me, I have been blessed in 2015 and look forward to 2016 with a full heart and spirit.  I wish all of my friends and family contentment, joy, health, interesting times, and prosperity in the coming year. 

Part of this morning's offerings

More greenery for sale

Language of Friendship

During this holiday season, I have had the opportunity to attend three events that took me into the heart of French homes.  The gatherings have had an international taste to them: French, British, Danish, Japanese, and the token American have represented their cultures and traditions. 

All three events took place in lovely homes: one country house, one traditional house here in the Carcaassonne city limits, and one at a former winemaker's domaine--estate.  These were threee very different homes, but what they had in common was the fact that they were all warm, interesting places whose inhabitants reached out and put their arms around strangers.  Please, don't let me ever again hear how rude and snobbish are the French.  In my experience, nothing is further from the truth  Reserved is a better word.

What I did notice was how  important language acquisition is to these social occasions and to making friends.  Sachiko seldom spoke during Christmas Day.  Her command of French is not good, and so she couldn't contribute to the discussions.  I don't know whether or not she was able to follow the thread of conversation, but I DO know how she felt. 

In all three of these social gatherings, the stated language was French.  We were expected to put aside our "shyness" and try to speak.  Even though there were English speakers at all three parties, we were expected to use French when addressing the group. At the "Protestant orphan" party, I observed the joy on the faces of three women who were able to converse among themselves in their native tongue, German.  It was as if they were finally visible to someone else. I never did get to speak with them, and they made no effort to talk to the non-German-speakers present.  I can understand why, and in no way find fault with them.  For one brief respite, they didn't have to work so hard.  

I have met English speakers who've been here for years, even decades.  They socialize only with other English speakers, and except for the interactions with merchants and the occasional government official or tradesperson, never advance their French language skills.  I understand it, but choose to not take that path.  I intend to make friends with the Carcassonnais, and I don't care how many language mistakes I make.  

The romantic idea that friendship or love will automatically bridge any and all language gaps is just that--a romantic notion.  Making friends in a foreign country, without a common language,  can be very challenging.  But not impossible, or so I keep reminding myself.

The Universe at Work

I spent Christmas Day with Bertrand and Elise Javelaud at their house in the Audois countryside.  It was a beautiful day in a beautiful spot on the planet.  There were nine of us altogether: Elise and Bertrand, their two sons, Nicolas and Yves, Satchiko, Yves' Japanese wife, their four year-old son Yuma, a couple from church, Jack and Linda Comins, and I made up the ninth.  I have NEVER seen a better-behaved four year old than Yuma.  NEVER!  Elise is originally from South Africa, but is now French.  Satchiko is Japanese.  Yuma, the little boy, attends an international school and is fluent in Japanese and French, as one might expect, but can also, thanks to the exposure to his international friends and teachers, speak some English and some Russian. The  language of the day was French, and I am glad to say that under Bertrand's careful guidance I was able to hold my own and participate in the conversation.  I have been thinking a lot lately about language and how much I would miss out were it not for being able to speak, even stumbling and halting as I do.  How would one ever make friends?  How would one ever discuss feelings and opinions or share stories of growing up--all those tidbits of information that are the bricks and mortar of relationships?   What a lucky young man is Yuma to be exposed to language acquisition so early in his life.

We basked in the not-too-hot sunshine and enjoyed traditional French food, beautifully prepared and served.  For those who might be curious, we had aperos (aperitifs) of cherry tomatoes, olives and a glass of white wine.  Dinner began with foie gras on bread rounds, and a terrine of ham and vegetables, topped with cornichons, served with a drier white wine.  The main dish was pintade, (guinea fowl) fresh chanterelles, another side dish of mushrooms, haricots verts, (green beans) a cooked fruit that I think was red currants, but was very piquant, almost like unsweetened cranberries, a side dish that resembled stuffing, but was primarily meat, and to accompany this, a dry local red wine.  After the main dish, we enjoyed salad, and then a cheese course.  I have never enjoyed a cheese as much as I did the soft one Elise served.  The Roquefort was good, but the nearly runny soft cheese will forever stand in my memory. 

After the cheese course, we took a break from the food.  We were expected to share something--a reading, a story, a Christmas carol, a story of Christmas past.  Bertrand has an endless supply of jokes, many with a holiday theme.  I sang the children's carol, The Friendly Beasts.  And yes, I learned it in public school.  Elise and I both sang Once in Royal David's City.  

Dessert was the traditional buche de Noel, the yule log cake.  Delicious!  Elise suggested a walk, and I jumped at the chance.  Bertrand led us down some farm roads, past vineyards, both active and abandoned.  We came upon a man coming to feed his chickens a special meal for Noel, and he and Bertrand had a most animated conversation about whatever was getting his chickens.  Having that walk was just the tonic for helping to digest the meal and to get the blood flowing again after sitting so long at the dinner table.  I wondered, as I observed the fields and the stone walls, just how many generations of French had walked this road;  who were they and what were their stories?

Upon our return to the house, we had a cup of tea and yet more goodies.  Elise makes a "bread" with nuts and swirls of chocolate.  There were local chocolates from the confiserie, and dried fruit and confections of almond paste.  Not just the meal, but the whole day was a feast for the senses.

Today I had brunch with a man I met in the photocopy shop on Rue Aime Raymond earlier in the week.  His name is Roland, and he was just some "random guy" with whom I made a connection in the course of running an errand.  As it turns out, he happens to be very good friends with Elise and Bertrand.  Coincidence?  I don't think so.  I think this is the way the Divine works when my heart is cracked wide open.  It's along the same lines as the fact that my next door neighbor here in Carcassonne lived in my old hometown in Maryland, and that we discovered that we have friends in common.  I had no idea when I struck up a conversation with Roland and gave him my card and phone number that he knew this couple with whom I was going to spend Christmas Day.  Carca is a small city (about 48,000 people), but it's not that small!  I was dumbfounded to learn that he and the Javelauds know one another.  

Brunch today was exceptional and I made some new friends, but that story is for another blog.  I came home and marveled at the connections I am finding here.  The Universe and the Divine are leading me.  As I said, I don't believe in coincidences.  I believe that I am exactly in the place where I belong.  My heart tells me that every day, and today, the Universe nodded agreement.

Joyeuse Noel

Church ready for Christmas Eve service

It's early evening on Christmas Eve now; the light is fading, and people are returning to their homes to make ready for evening church services, family gatherings around a meal table or midnight masses.  What hustle bustle of preparations there was is now ended.  It is time for calm, for reflection, for sharing the company of family and friends.  I like Christmas better here in France; it's still slow enough to enjoy.

My sister and I Skyped today and she clued me in to the Festival of Lessons and Carols broadcast from King's College Cambridge.  This was always a part of my Christmas Even when I lived on the East Coast, but had to be foregone when I moved to Brookings, as there was no radio station that carried the broadcast.  How happy I was to hear it again today!  Thank you, BBC, for reuniting me with this part of my Christmas heritage.  With all of the uprooting and changes I have brought about this year, perhaps I am unduly happy to latch onto something familiar. I feel firmly anchored now that I have heard Once in Royal David's City. 

No great pipe organ of a cathedral

I will head out soon to the Christmas Eve service at the Protestant church here in Carcassonne.  It won't be as professional nor as grand as that of King's College.  It will be done with love and in the spirit of service. We will hear the ancient words of Luke, and we will all gather round the creche, as did those mythical visitors. 

I will come home and read Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales, remembering Sue and Tom, who gave me the little book all those years ago, and Lorraine Williams, who read from it so beautifully at more than one ORCA concert.   I will think of my friends and family, who, while they are geographically far away, are perhaps closer than ever before.  And as I turn out my light, I will smile and send gratitude out into the sacred darkness.

Joyeuse Noel--Merry Christmas.  Bonne fete.  Happy Holiday!

Creche

'Tis the Season

Roasted chestnuts at Carnot

Preparations proceed apace for the holidays here in Carca.  We had the children's Christmas service yesterday afternoon; there's a sameness to those celebrations that is both comforting and maddening.  The adolescents read too fast, the younger children stumble, and parents beam with pride.  Silent Night is no better in French than in English, and the verses from Luke are as lovely as they are in King James. 

Nationalities are unimportant--learning to skate is hard in any country

This morning we had a small attendance at church, but the singing was good.  Everyone, including this poor excuse for an accompanist, knew the hymns.  This congregation comes out of a Calvinist heritage, so Christmas decorations are sparse, although I wouldn't call iridescent garland tasteful, exactly.  However, it was hung with love.  There's no shortage of THAT in this little Protestant congregation.

Busy Christmas "hut"

Vendors set up outside Le Dome--those yellow fruits are chantclair apples

After coming back from church, I changed clothes and headed back out to see what was happening at Le Dome and in the streets.  During these last two Sundays before the big holiday, some of the stores have exercised their permission to be open.  The Christmas markets are open, skaters are whizzing around the rink, and the streets and cafes are filled with people. Place Carnot was unpleasantly jammed yesterday with the Saturday market vendors crammed along the edges of the Christmas market and the ice rink, but today was quite pleasant. 

Vin chaud, anyone?

I was especially interested in the offerings at Le Dome.  It is a small fair of all local farms and artisans, mostly concentrating on foie gras, local wines, local honey and jams, and artisanal cheeses.  I love foie gras, but don't trust my culinary skills to do justice to such an expensive ingredient.  I bought some locally made basil and garlic pasta, some jam, and a miniature loaf of cherry spice bread. Every single transaction started with the word, "Desolee."  Sorry.  At one point I told a vendor that was my new name.  These country people do NOT speak English; they speak rapid French with a thick southern accent.  They are all very curious about this great big American woman who asks them, every time, to please slow down.  Fortunately, we are all pretty good-natured and when I let them know that I can understand, but only if they speak slower, they are eager to help me with my language skills and eager to tell me about their farms and their heritage and their products.  We all came away from the transactions today feeling good, I think.

More skaters

Outside, I stopped at the cheese vendor.  I am learning about cheeses, and this man had a cantal--he sliced off a little piece for me to taste.  And then he gave me a piece of a younger version of the same cheese.  I bought a piece of the more mature one--delicious.  And when he was slicing, I told him not to make it too big, because I was alone.  Oh well, now--so is his partner.  So, I came away with a lovely piece of aged cantal and had I been of a mind, I could have had a date with a very short French cheesemaker who was wearing a sombrero.  I could have done worse.

I meandered through the Porte de Jacobins and over to Place Carnot.  The roasted chestnut machine was wafting smoke, the skating rink was busy, the Christmas market was doing a brisk vin chaud  (hot wine) trade, and the outdoor cafes that ring the square were abuzz with people having a coffee and visiting with friends. The weather has cooperated by not being too cold, even though today it was gray and overcast.  It all had a good feel to it--no short tempers or pushing or shoving or wanting to butt up in line.  On the P.A. system, James Taylor was singing In the Bleak Midwinter--most of the Christmas music here has been in English--and it was all very mellow; I haven't really felt any frantic hustle. 

Characters at Gambetta

Three friends?

On the way home, I ran into some costumed characters, a juggler, and Santa's little farm.  I can't get enough of those funny chickens.  Everyone was out enjoying the Magie de Noel (Magic of Christmas).  I will try my hand at Christmas cookies this afternoon and tonight there is an outdoor production of The Little Match Girl that I would like to see.

Sweet little donkey

My favorite chickens

The festivities don't stop once Christmas is here, but are planned through the end of the month.  I have promised to provide music for both the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day service.  After all these years as a church musician, I just can't seem to get away from it.  But it provides a sense of familiarity and a bit of structure.  But there are plenty of activities throughout the entire season--there's a calligraphy class I will attend and the rides and concessions will continue.  The season does not start as early here as it does in the US, but we make the most of it.

 

He gobbled until he was blue in the face

George Washington oiseau

Castelnaudary Cassoulet

Yesterday John and I went to Castelnaudary to see the Canal, and the Moulin (windmill), but the real reason for the trip was to get a helping of cassoulet from the place that claims to have invented the concoction.  John and Catherine had not been able to work Castelnaudary in to their itinerary during their time here and since my arrival  I had not yet had cassoulet, which I love. It would be an afternoon of "firsts."

Castelnaudary windmill

Cassoulet, (cah-sou-lay) for those who have never heard of it, could dismissively be described as a fancy pork and beans.  People who call it that have obviously never eaten real cassoulet.  Yes, it contains pork, and yes, it contains beans, but that's like saying that chocolate chip cookies are made up of flour and pieces of chocolate.  Cassoulet is a casserole made of haricots blancs (dried white beans) that have been cooked, Toulouse style sausage, duck confit (preserved duck legs) and a cut of pork.  Badly made, it is heavy and can be fatty.  Properly made, it is love and comfort brought piping hot to your table.   

Canal drained for cleaning

Castelnaudary claims to be the birthplace of cassoulet and there is a whole cult built around it---the proper dish in which to cook it, for how long, how much garlic, how to prepare the meats, how to prepare the beans, what kind of fire to use.  There is a confrerie (brotherhood) of cassoulet, based in Castelnaudary, whose members, complete with robes and sashes,  are experts on all things cassoulet.  There are rivalries as to which region's cassoulet is the best--Carcassonne? Toulouse?  Castelnaudary?  Do you add tomatoes or is that heresy? 

We chose Le Tirou as the place to get our cassoulet.  We should have checked in advance for the exact address and to make sure they were open.  I fugured Castelnaudary isn't that big, how hard could it be to find?  Although it should have occurred to me that it might be closed for the season, I figured anything that renowned would most likely be open.  Besides, I knew that in Castelnaudary there was bound to be someplace open that would serve its village specialty. You can check out its website here--they have posted photos of their cassoulet along with photos of the restaurant and their garden. We should have done this in advance, but there you go!

http://www.letirou.com/fr/pag1-Le-Restaurant.html

As it turned out, Le Tirou was a bit of a hike outside of town.  Neither John nor I bothered to get the exact address or directions--after all, Castelnaudary simply is not that big.  We turned the wrong way out of the train station and therefore added perhaps a kilometer to our walk.  As it turned out, as we asked locals (the tourist office being closed for lunch, naturelment) and they directed us out of town, back toward Carcassonne.  So we had a bit of a walk, (and you know it always seems longer when you don't know exactly where you are going) but it was a nice day, not too cold or windy, so the exercise was welcomed.  John was more concerned with it being open than I was, I think.  

Empty boat basin

We did find it--a rather unassuming location behind a gas station on the main road back to Carcassonne.  And yes, there were cars in the parking lot, so the Cassoulet gods were smiling upon us.  We went in to a clean, well appointed but not fancy restaurant and were seated by a very pleasant young man with an excellent command of English.  It turned out that he spent at least two years studying in Edinburgh and is the son of the chef and owner.  He is being groomed to take over the business, quite obviously.  

We ordered the formule--entree, main and dessert.  I had a smoked duck breast/gizzard salad and John had the warm goat cheese and honey salad. The young waiter brought us a basket of bread made on the premises--delicious.  Thankfully I had only one piece.  Then the main attraction arrived.  The waiter placed a vat of cassoulet in front of me and said to John, "Yours is on the way out."  I must have turned white as a sheet, because this casserole was huge.  It couldn't possibly be for one or even two people.  The young man smiled and said he was joking; this was for both of us.  He then proceeded to serve me, with a piece of pork, a Toulouse sausage, a duck leg and lots of lovely buttery beans.  John received identical service.  This young man was proud of what he was placing before us.

View from the windmill

I won't wax too rhapsodic about it.  I will say only that it was the best cassoulet I have ever eaten, and that included the cassoulet I make.  Not fatty, and the meats and beans cooked to perfection.  The seasonings were spot on.  The more I ate, the better it tasted.  And there was absolutely no way John and I could finish the meal.  There was probably a third of the casserole left.  This was one time I wished the French would relax their no doggie bag rule.  Dessert, which was included, for me was simply a dish of two small boules of lime sorbet with the rinds cut up in it.  Not too sweet, not too heavy.  

Neither John nor I felt "bloated or overstuffed" which is the mark of a really good meal, I think.  We felt sated and energized for our walk back into town and then up the hill to see the windmill.  I had been excited to show John the lovely boat basin and the windmill and the shop where I bought my first and now my second cassole to prepare my own cassoulet.  The Canal has been drained for cleaning, and there's scarcely any water in it at all.  Dining along the waterfront would not have been a pleasant experience in the least.  Even now, as I look at the pictures I took, I am having trouble processing the look of the water-less Canal and boat basin.  But I suppose this is necessary every so often to keep it from filling completely with debris,  both organic and man-made.

Grinding stone and one of the now-still vanes

The windmill delivered, though.  It is my favorite spot in Castelnaudary.  It overlooks the valley that reminds me so very much of the countryside where I grew up.  There were no tourists about, and just like Carcassonne, this little town, which was deserted when we arrived came to life after lunch.  If people are eating cassoulet, I understand even more why they would linger. 

John and Catheine

To Be or To Do? (Warning! This might be whining)

Ferris Wheel on a crisp December day

I am struggling with establishing a routine.  If I lay out my day in a structured to-do list kind of way, I worry that I won't get everything done.  After all, there are  many things I want to see and experience and accomplish in the relatively short time I have left on the planet.  This list never seems to include much time for day-dreaming.  The important thing is "To Do," right?

And if I have a binge day--reading or watching back to back to back episodes of Downton Abbey, I am consumed with guilt that I didn't get the bathroom floor washed or I didn't get my bike ride to and fromTrebes accomplished. Can I simply spend an hour at a cafe with a coffee, watching the Carcassonne world go by without feeling like I am a lazy slug?  Isn't "To Be" one of the main reasons I came to the south of France in the first place?

I believe the great fly in this ointment is sleep. Too much?  Not enough?  At the wrong times?    I have yet to establish a satisfactory waking pattern.  Most mornings, because of the dim dawn light, I don't even open my eyes until nearly 9:00.  That sets my day off badly, as I feel like I am running late.  For what?  Who is going to point fingers at me and say I should have risen with the chickens?  (Well I have news for that person--here the chickens are just waking up at 9:00, too.) The other morning I was up and about at 6:15, but by 8:30, right in the middle of putting leftovers in separate containers, I was overcome with a fatigue so great that all I could do at that instant was lie down...and went promptly to sleep for two hours.  I am not sure I gained anything by arising so early.  As a child, I could never take a nap while the sun shone; now I find that all it takes for me to fall asleep is to get myself into a horizontal position.  That goes for bedtime, too.  Staying asleep when it's dark?  That's another matter entirely.  I am counting on the absence of alarm clock pressures to eventually sort itself out and I will be able to come to some equilibrium in my sleep patterns.  One thing I know is that I am sick to death of thinking about it.

I have envied forever those lucky, lucky souls who wake early, alert and ready to rush into their days.  It always seemed to me that they simply had more time to get more things done than people like me who drag into the day.  

I have always felt that I functioned best with the structure of a schedule.  Now I am trying to establish a way of organizing my own time so that I can get everything done that I would like to do and not feel such resentment as I feel about having to be at a meeting today at 14:30. Working with my  photographs, practicing the dulcimer, reading, writing, getting in a several hours' walk, marketing, exploring the city and its environs, going to the library, running errands, correspondence and housework to be done--are clamoring for my time. 

I was at the market by 9:30 this crisp morning, arriving before lines had formed at Monoprix, and there were still full selections at the fruiter's. Most of the stores don't even open until 10:00, so there was no temptation to go in and have a look around.  I do have a meeting at 14:30 at church this afternoon, and I think the resentment I feel about it has less to do with it being a demand on my time today than it has to do with being a demand from someone who wants me to make a regular commitment of my time.  I have worked on some correspondence and have written this blog.  Lunch is warming on the stove.  I am doing the best I can, I think and that's all I can ask of myself.  I have to believe that it is possible to both "do" and "be."

Hotel Bristol across from the Canal du Midi

Odds and Ends

Warm sunny spot for a sack lunch along the Canal

Had a lovely encounter this morning with Michel and his wife.  They've got a new apprentice, which speaks volumes about his willingness and sense of continuity and love of his metier, to want to pass it along to another generation.  I think that may be one definition of a good life--to have loved the work one has done, enough to want that same skill set to be passed to another generation.  Nelly wants my recipe for pumpkin cake--apparently it was quite the hit. I am very humbled by her request, because she is a fabulous cook.

Just an average day in the streets here

Continuing on my way to the post office, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of live music.  A band of red-suited, white shoe-d players were playing some "big band" music.  People were scurrying by, traffic was pulling out onto Rue Verdun in front of them.  Just a normal workday.  And there they were, making music.  It would have been harder to make my day any brighter, but they plastered quite the grin on my face.

I finished reading my new friend John Honney's book, Always in Motion.  He is my UK neighbor, missing one leg and this book details his running of the London, Chicago, Boston, Berlin and New York Marathons.  He's funny and honest and inspirational.  I am so sorry that he and Catherine will be leaving here for either Geneva or London in a week's time.  I think that might be one of the downsides of an expat community--people are always in transit.  

Dig the shoes!

Everyone here is abuzz with the first round election results.  One of the writers whose blog I read daily likened the FN (Marine LePen's National Front) to totalitarianism.  Next round coming up will be the defining round.  I probably could be deported should the FN gain total power, as the main plank in their platform is NO immigrants, especially non-whites.  Oh yes, and she hates Americans.  But I will worry about that bridge if and when it comes up.  I think much of  this extreme-right sentiment is a reaction to the bombings in Paris. 

Took a great walk in the warm sunshine this morning.  It's been mild and pleasant and I didn't even wear a jacket, just long sleeves.  I probably could have used my hoodie, as the ever-present wind did go through the two layers rather easily.  But oh, the sun was warm and comforting.  I will take another spin outside this afternoon as well--I have half a quiche waiting for me at the Rabats' and some breadcrumbs to feed to the muskrats.  Reading and writing await me after dinner.  How did I ever manage to get anything done when I was working? 

The whole group

Fete de Saint Nicholas

Light show projected onto the art museum

Yesterday was St. Nicholas' Day, the reason for the weekend festivities.  The city's holiday lights were turned on throughout the Bastide, the markets opened, the rides for the children and grown children started spinning, Gambetta began its light show and of course, the Marche aux flambeaux wound its way down from La Cite through the streets.  Costumed artisans demonstrated jousting, medieval cookery, arts having to do with battle and ancient herbal potions (to heal the wounds inflicted by the battles!?)  I spent some time in one of the booths where the man in charge was explaining the fine points of chain mail and the protective armor.  I could not at first figure out what was so odd about the suit of armor he had displayed on the table.  Then it finally came to me.  I have posted a photo here and will see if it appears odd to anyone else.

Something is off?  And how small are these people, anyway?

Ouch!  Really, ouch!  The Bad Knigt?

There were a lot of tourists in town over the weekend.  The proprietress of a shop I went into to buy a Christmas gift was grumbling about the Spanish tourists and I did hear quite a bit of Spanish being flung around in the streets in La Cite.  There's never as much activity here in the Bastide.  

The beheading booth was quite popular.

This looks effective, unless you need to breathe.

This year I watched the torch parade from Place Gambetta.  John and Catherine and I were enjoying a bottle of cider at the Verre d'un  on the corner.  It's a wine bar that occasionally will make a plate of food to showcase the wines they carry.  Tonight's offering was aligot and saucisses...aligot and Toulouse style sausage.  Catherine and I split a bottle of  cider, which was the best cider I have ever drunk.  It's made in the French Basque region from wild apples.  We enjoyed cider and great conversation, plenty of interaction with the waiter and the owner, who, as promised, came to fetch us when the parade passed by.  We enjoyed the pageantry and then returned inside for the aligot.  By then poor John was more than ready for his supper.  Truthfully, we all were hungry.

A very sedate torch parade.  I could feel the heat as they walked by.

The parade this year wasn't as spectacular as the first one I saw.  I don't want to be one of those woeful carper/complainers.  I have been trying to figure out why I wasn't as thrilled as I had been the first time I saw it.  Obviously I knew what to expect this time, so the newness value wasn't there.  It wasn't as cold as it had been that first time, so the payoff factor for standing in the cold trying to stay warm was absent this year.  But I think the most important missing ingredient was the backdrop of La Cite; it just wasn't as impressive a sight to see the torches coming through the lit plaza with a light show playing as it had been to see the flickering parade make its way down the hill and across the pedestrian only bridge.  It felt as though there weren't as many costumed participants as in that first year, nor were there as many musical and percussive offerings.  The people who'd bought the torches (as part of the national telethon fundraiser) and were marching were quiet and reserved.  There were horses this year, which was great.  I think any shortcomings or disappointment I felt with this year's offering were mostly a result of my own poor placement along the route.  However, it was nice to get quickly back into the restaurant and to our cider and aligot.

Christmas lights down Rue Verdun

Just a side note about aligot. (pronounced alley-go) It's sort of like mashed potatoes with a whole lot of melted cheese incorporated into them. They are ready to eat when the mixture falls from a spoon in ribbons.  Ours were good, but should have been hotter.  They are a mess to clean in the pan when you heat them at home, but oh so worth the effort.  The surprise of the evening for me was the Toulouse sausage.  This restaurant uses a butcher out in Pezans and these were delicious.  Not too coarse, not too fine and not greasy nor overly spiced.  I have never been a great fan of sausage for all of the reasons I just listed, but I would have these again in a heartbeat.  

The wicker/twine balls light up at night--like planets

A crush of people at the hot wine booths

Carnot--non-vin chaud side

After the meal was over, we walked up to Place Carnot.  It was sort of late and the majority of the Christmas huts had shut down.  The hot wine places were doing a booming trade, however.  Just getting through the crush of people was nearly impossible. We left there and walked up to Chenier, passing  Bar 38 where live music was spilling out into the streets.  At Chenier, the Ferris Wheel was slowly spinning, but all of the huts were locked and dark. The children had all gone home by this time of night.  John's sweet tooth was crying out for some dessert; since we didn't find anything open, we came back to my house for the stash of chocolate and a pot of coffee and more conversation. I didn't get great photos on out outing Saturday evening; I am going out tonight at dusk to see if I can't do better. 

Ghostly Ferris wheel at Chenier

Officially, the holiday season here has arrived.  Stores are decorated and the rides and lights are calling to the children and their parents.  The wonderful silver Christmas tree of two years ago has been retired, I guess.  But there are other delights: the light show at Gambetta projected onto the front of the art museum, tunnels of lights to get into and out of the parks.  The Ferris wheel this year is lit in brilliant white, rather than the yellow incandescent bulbs of the past.  Dare I say that I don't like it as well?  I just don't want to be one of those hidebound people who can't abide change.  God knows I have made enough of it! I have decided to not let my yearning for things to be exactly as they once were spoil my enjoyment of the way things are now.

Another scene from the light show

One of the local "lords"

Open fire heated wine

Chain mail

Cafe Saillan and Single Women

John and Catherine

My neighbors John and Catherine have given me an introduction into Cafe Saillan, a local hangout a block away from Place Carnot.  Cafe Saillan is a long-running Carcassonne establishment, mentioned in one of Kate Mosse's novels set here in the city.  It is rumored to have been the meeting ground for the local resistance movement during World War II.  I have passed this particular spot when I have gone to Mexicot to buy chicken livers.  (Michel does not sell them, so I am not being unfaithful.) It's full of color and characters and I've always felt a little triste that I was unsure of the welcome I would be given there.  It is obviously a favorite spot for local movers and shakers, local politicians and committee heads, and I have never once seen a woman in there by herself.  

John, being the gregarious and very social bee that he is, has made friends with many of the regular clientele.  Catherine's French Canadian background gives her the conversational skills needed for John to actually talk to the guys there.  They both rave about this place

Some people find it hard to grasp that the rules for travel, or simply living, whether here in France or the States (or probably any other country) are different for women alone.  I know women back in the States who won't even go to the movies or out to a restaurant by themselves. It's never ever occurred to me not to do either just because I didn't have someone with me.  Obviously I am used to traveling alone and with one or two exceptions, I have never, ever had a problem.  I think in the US, the raised eyebrow and disdainful, "One?" by a maitre'd has gone the way of buggy whips, and even here in France, every restaurant I have entered has been welcoming.  

He's from the UK; she's Canadian

Having said that, there are still some places I probably wouldn't venture in alone. I am not afraid, but an American woman by herself runs a great risk of having polite conversation misinterpreted.  It has happened to me a couple of times and I have learned to be a little more guarded when talking to male strangers.  Cafe Saillan has always struck me as full of interesting characters, which appeals to me, but a little bit of a male bastion, which does not.  

So, when John and Catherine offered to introduce me to the owner and the main waiter and several of the regulars, I jumped at the chance.  They are, in effect, passing the torch to me.  We strolled up there yesterday afternoon right around lunch.  The place was packed; there wasn't an empty seat or a barrel in sight.  John went inside to get us a glass of wine each and Catherine and I chatted and people and dog watched while we waited.  

I might mention that the market, for the first time ever, was not particularly pleasant.  Because of the Christmas market huts and the ice rink, the regular vendors are jammed into the remaining space, making getting through the "aisles" nearly impossible.  I think Saillan was especially crowded because shoppers were sorely in need ot rest and sustenance after fighting the market hordes.  Next week I will go an hour earlier, and maybe avoid the worst of the sardine-in-a-can feeling.  

John soon arrived with our drinks and Fon-fon; the guy who is the president of the local chapter of the Prosper Montagne Club Gastronomique.  We chatted for a bit and then he left.  Another regular came up and talked with John and Catherine.  I can't remember his name, but he used to work in the circus and made his living as a performer and then as a trainer.  Catherine has some connection to Cirque du Soleil, which is Canadian, so they have really hit it off.  When he noticed that Catherine and I were both drinking rose instead of white or red,, he gave us a mini lesson about the rose wine of Provence being better than that of our region.  I do know that the best roses are almost gray, which impressed him.  I did not spoil my good first impression by telling him that I don't like the roses of Provence, and much prefer the ones from here in the Aude.) John and Catherine have taken off for a few days in Provence, so they now have a mission to find wine and a dish made with lambs' feet.  (As recommended by another guy in the restaurant where we had dinner last night)

Snagged a barrel

So, I have been properly presented to society here. (Does that make me a debuante?)  It is now up to me to keep the English speaking presence in the cafe.  I hope I am equal to the task.