Winter Reflections

The Canal in winter is quiet, almost hibernation-like.  Canal authorities close it in November so that sections of it can be drained and the bottom cleaned.  The boats moored in the basin across from the train station in Carcassonne are still; on-board activity is small and contained.  I saw the owners of La Belle Helene sitting at their kitchen table, having coffee and shuffling papers.  

The water stands waiting; the locks are closed for the season and without their movement and the wakes of passing boats, there's little to mar the mirror surface.  The boat fenders come in assorted shapes and hues, like candy dangling over the sides.  

Winter is a time for reflection, and not just of boats in the water.  The pace of life here, never hectic to begin with, is even slower in January and February.  The markets have lost their frenetic pace acquired during the holiday season.  Some stores and restaurants are closing for a well-earned respite before the tourists begin arriving.  It's a time to think about where I am in my journey, where I have been and what I would like to strive for.

I know it shouldn't come as a shock to me, but today I was overwhelmed by the passage of time.  How did forty years pass since I met the man who changed my life?  Could it possibly be thirty years since I first set eyes on the West Coast?  I have been a cancer survivor for--24 years? How is this possible? Where did the time go?  What do I have to show for it?  Is that even a question to be asking?  It implies that we should have a collection of things and I have just spent time and energy shedding things.  But I hope I have insight, wisdom, balance, compassion to show for those passing years.

None of us know the number of our days.  While I don't believe in being mired in the past, I think it is good, like the Canal, to stop, to drain ourselves, to clean out the accumulated muck and to replenish our water, our energy.  Winter in Carcassonne make that task just a bit easier.

Low Key Monday

Aude on a grey day

Mondays here are almost as quiet as Sundays.  Many businesses are closed for the day.  After all, they were open on Saturday, and they'd like two days in a row to recover.  We've been told to never buy fish on Mondays, as there are no deliveries.  Fishermen take Sundays off.

I have been reading a little more about Saint Vincent, who met his gruesome end by being pressed to death; thus the connection to the grape press.  Sunday's La Depeche contained photos of a wine press being used at Saturday's festival.  I missed that--there were too many people blocking the view, I guess.  Honestly, once I got my glass of wine, I headed home.  After all, it WAS lunch time.

La Cite stands watch

Apparently simply crushing Saint Vincent to death didn't satisfy the prosecutor Dacien.  He ordered the body be thrown out for all to see and for the animals to eat.  Well, a crow protected his body, so the story goes.  We certainly have never lacked for imagination in inflicting pain and humiliation upon our own kind, have we?  

Yesterday's church service was okay--Jean-Pierre took the last hymn our of order and that threw me for a loop.  When did I become so easily rattled?  I had practiced those hymns, but nobody could have told that from the way I played, or rather, mis-played them. Members of the congregation still came up and thanked me for being there.  It's really humbling; I know how BADLY I play.  I tell you, I think it's karma coming around for all the negative thoughts directed toward organists who can't play.  The shoe's on the other foot, now.

Notre Dame de la Sante window...reminds me of carrots

The forecast called for sun yesterday--they got that wrong.  And grey today--they got that right.  As soon as my dishwasher finishes its cycle, I am headed out for a walk, and maybe a warm-up.  Although it's grey, I think it's not as cold outside as it is here in my apartment.  After a nice walk, warmed up leftover chili is going to taste mighty fine!  

Fete de St. Vincent

Carrying the wine cask

President of Prosper Montagne club, sponsors of the festival

Hunters present a fanfare

Full regalia

Yesterday was Saint Vincent's Day. Today we celebrated his festival.  St. Vincent is the patron saint of winegrowers, and as this is the biggest wine-producing region in France, keeping him happy and honored is serious business.  Today's fete was run by and for the locals; there was some mention of it in the paper, but very little publicity is aimed at tourists.  

I was here for the festival in January 2014, so I knew what to expect.  I tried to reject making comparisons.  Times and people change, and I have to allow for that without judgment.  We were supposed to gather at 10:15 in Place Gambetta to set off through the streets.  I have learned not to count on too many on-time starts to events here.  It's more relaxed.  My upstairs neighbor, Susan and I met to watch the gathering.  We ran into a friend of hers, Michel at the tabac, who was also present to take photos.  As there was still not a robe or banner in sight, I decided to head to the market; I wanted a jar of honey.  I knew I wouldn't miss much; the parade would be headed toward the market at any rate.

Order of the stuffed chicken

Most of the  participants from 2014 were here again this year.  The hunting club in their red jackets offered fanfares on their hunting horns. They make playing those horns look easy.  I assure you, it is not.  Those are valve-less horns and the only way to change notes is to change the the position of the mouth--quickly and accurately.  There is something deep-rooted and timeless in that sound.  The confreries (brotherhoods) of various food and wine lovers were there:  cassoulet, the chicken farmers, the veal raisers, all in robes and hats and carrying banners.  Some wine producers were carefully cradling their precious bottled cargo like newborn infants.  There was a litter on which was a cask decorated with vines and grapes borne aloft by four carriers. These people are deeply connected to one another and to the land.

Brotherhood of Cassoulet of Castelnaudary

Saturday market as usual

The procession stopped at Place Carnot, in front of a bustling Saturday market.  The locals mostly acknowledged the procession and then went back about their marketing business.  Newcomers like Susan and I were busy taking photos (there was also a lot of press there) and walking along with the participants.  They made a stop inside the Cercle du Taurin  (afficionados of the bullfight) "clubhouse" right off of Place Carnot.  During the procession in 2014, this stop involved plenty of opened wine bottles, but this time, it was too crowded for me to get inside.  Susan tells me that she saw no sign of opened wine, so maybe they didn't do that this year.

This group is headquartered in Toulouse

The "lead" vintner?  

The priest welcomes the procession to St; Vincent's church

Back out into the streets they came, en route to St. Vincent's church, whose bells were pealing loudly, calling everyone to the service.  The priest stood in the doorway,  welcoming the petitioners. The church's organist, Henri Ormieres, played a thundering processional.  

Organ at St. Vincent's

I think St. Vincent's has the best organ in Carcassonne.  The hunting horns provided more fanfare, confirming my belief that the hunting horn is an outside instrument, not meant for the reverberations of a cathedral.  We had a short service: some  prayers and asked-for blessings .

Blessing the wine

There was a hymn in Occitan.  Henri prepared a two-piece organ "recital":  Bach's Wachet Auf and a 20th century piece with which I was unfamiliar.  The priest performed the benediction, and we all recessed outside and across the alley to St. Vincent's private little vineyard.  There the lead vintner and one helper cut the last few bunches of grapes, a symbolic act, I think.

Symbolically pruning the last of the grapes

Once the vines were clean, the lead vintner, who'd been sporting a mini cask around his chest (it reminded me of the Saint Bernards of the Alps) opened the cask that had been on the litter and offered a little glass of chardonnay to any takers.  It tasted of earth and "rocks,"  my favorite.  I am no wine connoisseur, but I marveled at being able to walk through the streets with a cup of wine in my hands and know that nobody was going to give me grief about it.  And it didn't even have to be in a brown bag!

A taste, anyone?

During this fete, I was even more aware of the Southern France-Catalonia connection and roots to this tradition.  The Languedoc has a unique culture, history and identity.  Wine growing in this rocky, limestone-y soil, bullfighting, a reliance on the Saints, and the language of the region, Occitan, set it apart from other areas of France and more closely link it to Spain.  People here are proud of their heritage.  Yes, they might talk on their cell phones while in full medieval regalia--one has to embrace the times, after all-- but their roots go deep into this limestone-y soil. Note the dates on the banner of the chicken farmers!  Those roots today were celebrated and traditions honored.  It's one of the things I most like about living here. 

So, a tally of the day reveals: a jar of mountain flower honey, some spices and a helping of wild boar from the market: getting to hear the hunting horns:  peeking inside the Cercle Taurin;  meeting a man from Denmark who was passing through on his way to Carnaval in Limoux and explaining the goings-on to him; singing in Occitan; hearing Bach on a magnificent organ played expertly; and a taste of the 2015 grape harvest.  Not bad for a Saturday morning.    

Plow in St. Vincent's vineyard

La Neige

Just starting to get slushy after lunch

I took my upstairs neighbors out to the CZ Ferraudiere this morning so they could do some computer shopping (Sophie) and look for an espresso machine (Susan).  As for me, I needed to go to Lidl for basic paper products.  So we decided to make a morning of it.  We hopped an early #1 bus and off we went.

View from my bedroom window

La Cite dresses in white

After scouring the aisles of Gifi and Conforama and Plein Ciel, we stopped for lunch.  When I looked up--il neige.....it's snowing.  That was at about noon and it has been snowing steadily ever since.  There's an accumulation and everyone, or at least we three newcomers to Carcassonne, are beside ourselves with delight.  I am no great fan of the white stuff, but if I don't have to shovel or drive in it, I can appreciate its beauty. 

Susan on the Pont Vieux

Snowy Aude

So, we had a delightful outing, except for the fact that we never did get to Lidl, and I still need white vinegar and toilet paper.  But hey, I got some great photos of the snow. 

Snow tangled in the branches

Statue at the foot of the street

News from Le Sud-Ouest

It's been a relatively quiet week for me.  The big news is that winter is, if not finally here,  coming down the lane.  Today's forecast in the paper had a little snowflake just to the north of Carcassonne, in the Black Mountains.  The temperatures are above freezing here, but my poor face would have begged to differ during this morning's market outing.  The wind makes it feel much colder than the thermometer indicates.  I was happy to get back to my, if not toasty, at least warm apartment. 

This morning's marketing

It's a good day to make a pot of soup and I am going to bake another pumpkin cake.  I should go down to the church and practice tomorrow's music for an hour or so, but to tell the ttruth, I feel like staying in.  I have done two practice sessions this week, and I seem to recall some, saying about flogging a dead horse that seems to apply here.

The little pumpkin-- to be hacked, peeled and put in the cake

News in the paper the last few days--the avian flu has been hard to get under control, and yesterday's headlines wondered if we are heading toward a Sud-Ouest without ducks....they are talking about slaughtering the flocks to arrest the disease.  It would be a pity, but it may have to be done.

This morning's paper's front page headlines are about "Wayward Cows."  Apparently, just like on Carpenterville Road in Brookings, there are some livestock ranchers here who let their cows run free.  The mayors of the hamlets affected are up in arms.  Should be interesting.

Fennel, a favorite of mine

Oh yes, next weekend is the Festival of Saint Vincent, the patron saint of vignerons--the wine growers.  And St. Vincent's has started another round of desperately needed repairs and restoration, so maybe the church service will be a little warmer and less leaky.

True, it's not Paris.  But for me, Carca is like Goldilocks'  "just right."  It's urban enough to have something going on almost all the time, and yet rural enough that livestock can still make the news.  

Visigoths, Imigration and Perspective

Andre and Walburg

One of the things I like about the French is that they admire and cultivate learning.  They do not belittle their intellectuals and on the whole, my generation of French want to learn more about art, history, music and literature.  I can't speak for the current generation; I suspect many of them have been "infected" with cravings for easy entertainment and instant gratification.  I hope I am wrong.

Therefore, the conference I attended today might seem pointless or pretentious, I am not sure which would be the worse insult.  Organized by Walburg and Harald Probst, the same couple who hosted the "Protestant orphans" luncheon,  it featured Andre Bonnery, one of the men from the Protestant congregation.  He is a Doctor of the State, which I am guessing is akin to a PhD in U.S. academia.  There were about 30 or so of us gathered in their living room, wine and hors d'oeuvres were provided as well as comfortable seating.  What a wonderful home they have created in their old winery!

Thoughtful attention

Andre's topic was the Migration of the Visigoths as a reference point for discussing modern day immigration.  He talked about the root causes of migration in general and in particular, the routes taken by the invading forces, the sacking of Rome in 410, assimilation and the legacy of the Visigoths.  Yes, people were actually interested in the history and eager to discuss the modern day problems of immigration. 

Andre gets ready

It was hard for me to focus merely on Europe and the issue of immigrants from Islamic countries.  I kept thinking about the US and its own issues with the influx of Latino migrants and the challenges everyone faces as too many people on the planet move around in search of too few resources.  People were respectful and their questions and their comments were thoughtful, and answer-seeking rather than knee-jerk and xenophobic.  

Of course, everything was conducted in French.  I was glad that it was Andre who was speaking, because he has great diction, even if he does have somewhat of a southern French accent.  I got probably 97% of what he was saying.  Walburg and I were talking afterward.  She is Polish by birth, but her native tongue is German.  She has been in France many times longer than I have and she still struggles at times.  We agreed that if we really want to learn, we have to push ourselves, whether it be to learn history or the language.  

Those who know me will find it hard to believe that I did not contribute to the discussion.. When have I not had something to say about anything?  I was able to trade asides with the man sitting next to me, who had a lot to contribute.  But my language skills just aren't up to the task in front of so large a group of strangers.  My French is definitely better, and improves almost daily, but I get frustrated by not being able to communicate with ease.

Visiting before the lecture starts

If the purpose of the conference was to get us to think, it succeeded beyond Walburg's and Andre's greatest expectations.  We talked about immigration and history in the car on the way home.  I stil have a great deal of thoughts about the subject whirling around in my head.  Andre's point was that the Visigoths assimilated, mostly by converting to Catholicism.  Today we haven't a state religion (at least in the U.S.) and we have to figure out how to live in a secularly governed country while practicing the religion of our choice.  

My points are these, in no particular order: 

              The simple fact is that there are too many people on the planet. 

            People in general love their homeland and don't leave their roots unless they are forced out--by hunger, by war, by changing climate. Control those factors, keep living situations stable and generally people will not pull up stakes and relocate.  (Yes, I am very much aware of the irony in that statement) 

             People bind to one another through language and sometimes religion.  Immigrants to France are expected to learn to speak French. 

             The perspective of time changes the tone of the impact of immigration:  I am sure that the Romans who had their crops and houses commandeered by the invaders were not as kindly disposed toward the Visigoths as those historians hundreds of years later who admire the vigor and innovation that the Visigoths brought with them.  

I don't think anyone expected to come up with answers to the problems of immigration.  But I am honored to have been included in a group of people who are willing to sit down and discuss this, without rancor, without name-calling, without pointing fingers. Would that our politicians would do the same. 

Walburg and Harald's "conference room"

Walk on a Winter's Day

Afternoon light along the Aude banks

With apologies to the Mamas and Papas...I am not California Dreamin';  I am Carcassonne rambling.  After church this morning, I desperately needed to stretch my legs.  The ten-minute walk home just wasn't enough, so I packed a sandwich, made a pot of coffee to put into my new thermos, put on my Occitan hoodie and set off.  I wasn't exactly sure where I was going; I knew it was going to be along one of our bodies of water.  The Aude won out.

Mirror-like Aude

Aude is calm

Today was extraordinary.  NO WIND, and temperatures in the 60's made it ideal for a long walk.  I set off with my camera determined to be one hour out and one hour back.  You know what they say about the road to hell.  Maybe if I hadn't had my camera along, I might have covered more ground.  

Cormorants and their reflections

I headed east along the Aude, a route I have never before taken. The gravel path is well marked and maintained, although I found myself very quickly out in the country once I passed the stadium.  The Aude was like a mirror.  I have never seen it so reflective.  A pair of cormorants drying in the sun captured the attention of several of us as we marched down the path.  The bare trees afforded me great views of the river.  I encountered few other walkers or bikers, but I never felt isolated or edgy.  I found a flat rock for my picnic, one walker wished me "bon appetit" as he passed by.   I feel eminently safe here, even walking alone out in the countryside along the riverbank.  

My picnic "bench"

Winter reflections east of the city

Given that I walk about a 20 minute mile, I figure I covered about 1.5 miles each way.    Not bad for a ramble.  Next time, I will start earlier in the day and keep exploring this river I love. 

Downstream from the spillway

I came across a spillway and old equipment

A closer look

Soldes Season

60% off

Things have gotten quiet on the holiday festivities front, but are getting busy with the soldes season.  It's the season of sales.  Unlike the practice in the US, sale season is carefully regulated here in France; these storewide sales are limited to twice a year: once in January and another in July.  It's big news, especially in Paris where les grands magazins (the big department stores, like Printemps and Galleries Lafayette) put up their signs and throw open their doors.  The TV stations gave the season opening lots of coverage.  A savvy shopper can snag some good deals.

Sales do not interfere with lunch!  Closed until 2:00

Not much of a shopper myself, and not really needing or wanting much, soldes season isn't THAT vital to me, but it is still fun to observe and to window shop.  Here in Carcassonne, the little boutiques in the Bastide are all sporting big Soldes signs in their windows and hosting lots of shopper traffic, especially in the afternoons.  My upstairs neighbor Susan and I hopped the bus out to Leclerc yesterday to see what kind of price discounts a big box store was offering.  

Nice children's clothing store

We both have just been through the process of disbanding a household and are trying to establish a new one in a strange land.  I did bring a few things with me:  kitchen knives, tea towels, wine stopper, and have had to furnish a few other things: spatulas, soup ladle, a glass measuring cup.  Susan is just beginning that process, so she was particularly delighted with Leclerc's promotion aisle.   While I scored on a few needed kitchen gadgets, alas, the ink cartridge for my printer was at full price. 

Another good sale

While the big box store was full of surprises, we both prefer to shop at the  boutiques in the Bastide.  It was great fun going shopping with a friend.  Of course, nothing much fits me here. As I may have mentioned before, the French, especially the women, are slightly built and petite.  I couldn't get my hands into the largest pair of red leather gloves, as much as I tried.  I have been told that the only way for me to find a pair of shoes to fit is to go to Toulouse. Nobody here has feet as big as mine. Perhaps I should go to Scandinavia to look for clothes!  I am happy to report that I found a new pair of jeans, and they are within a "normal" size range.  I also bought a new long-sleeved nightshirt, as I brought only one with me and it's getting to the point where I can almost read the paper through it.   I have lost enough weight that I will be able to find some clothes to fit me here, even if I have to be barefooted.  Lingerie might be another problem; any bra that has only two hooks is simply not going to work.  You all know why!  Fortunately, I brought about 10 with me.  

Found a sleep shirt in here

My favorite SOLDES sign. 

And hey--there's always purses and scarves.  They fit!  And are on SALE.