News and New to Me

Sorry, no photos today.  The news coming from France is that plastic bags are BANNED as of tomorrow!!!  I have seen the bigger supermarkets preparing for this for some time now--not even offering plastic bags for sale.  I have finally learned to take my bag with me when I go to the market, but I will miss the plastic ones (that I got from the vendors at the open air markets) for my peelings and other food scraps to take to the bin at the end of the street.  I will find another way to deal with that.  I am so happy that France is leading the way in getting rid of this blight.

Nighttime view from my living room window

Other news:  everyone is excited about the quarter-final soccer match this coming Sunday evening.  France is playing Iceland, who so courteously eliminated Great Britain from the tournament.  The big Festival is upon us and will begin on Friday as well--music and dancing everywhere throughout the city.  

And in the news to me department: 

I had a completely new experience last night--I was a passenger in a right side driver car.  After 50+ years of driving in the US, I cannot begin to express how weird it felt to get into the normal "driver's" side only to have no steering wheel in front of me.  The world tilted for just a second.  

I visited the home in Villeneuve Minervois of my Irish concertina-playing friends for a "slow session" of Irish music learning.  What I don't know would fill an ocean.  But  I have stumbled onto world class teachers and I hope I am worthy of their time and effort.  It's not easy for this old girl to learn new musical tricks, especially when they fly in the face of all I have known and practiced for the past 35 years....

Latest Bar 98 session

I have an American/Irish couple coming for dinner on July 4--burgers, potato salad, watermelon and maybe sparklers are on the menu. I will spend Tuesday with my friend from Pittsburgh and her visiting friends from the US. Wednesday is an all-day traditional music event up in La Cite--my Irish musician friends will be there and in the evening, there will be another traditional dance.  And on Friday, I venture to Toulouse to fetch my friend Betty.  Busy times are ahead.

PS--I changed my mind about the photos.

Time Marching

Longest daylight day--la Cite catches the last rays of the day

I had thought retirement might be quieter than this.  The week has been filled with events, great and small.  I sometimes am filled with a mild nostalgia because the change of seasons is so much more delineated here than it was for me in Brookings.  There are four distinct seasons here, and each brings its own light, and crops and rhythms.  

We reached our planet's tipping point.  The longest daylight filled day of the year has come and gone.  We marked it with our street party, staying our late because the light generously stayed with us.  But I am always just a little triste (sad) on that day of the year, knowing the days will grow darker from now until December.  

After last weekend's chill, we have moved into the warmth of summer.  I am learning to use the shutters to block out the heat of the day while keeping the windows open to catch the stray breezes.   We enjoyed a thunderstorm--hail fell, hard and loud on the terra cotta roofs.  Some bounced through the living room windows and landed on the sofa, where it melted.  I thoroughly enjoyed the light show and the relief from the humidity it brought.

repotted gardenia has taken root and has blooms

I now have a French bank account and thus am one more step forward in putting down roots.  My plants have developed their root systems in their new pots and are growing and healthy.  My gardenia has two blooms and more buds.  

There is a sense of an ending at the market.  I think the asparagus is about over, as are the cherries.  The prices are at bargain levels--never did I think I would see Ranier cherries for under $3 a pound. The fresh peas of spring are disappearing. I suspect I bought the last of the peonies--deep red ones and showy white blooms.  I so loved the spring here this year, even the wind that came with it.

One little bloom perfumes the entire room

But now we have peaches, and nectarines, and apricots and watermelon.  My basil plant has already given me enough for vegetable lasagna and a cold cucumber-basil soup.   It's summer bounty I see in the market now.  Before I realize it, we will be harvesting grapes, and fall vegetables will be popping up.

Last peonies of the season

July is upon us. It is the high tourist time in Carcassonne--the city has concerts planned nearly every day.  There are big "names" coming to the amphitheater in La Cite, and free pocket concerts in parks here in the Bastide.  Neighbors are grilling; nearly every evening I can smell food being cooked over an outdoor fire.  I wonder if they have lightning bugs here.  My arms are proof that there are mosquitoes.

All of this feeling of "rightness" has been tempered this week by two things.  First, I have had some stunning news about my grandmother's childhood.  My sister thinks that the Divine Universe wants us to uncover this information, no matter how sad it made us.  Because indeed, the truth does set you free.  The new information gave me the nudge I needed to get the story down on paper.  My writing has been flowing almost as freely as these blogs, and for that I am grateful.

Some of the gang

The second event was the massive heart attack suffered by one of our "gang."  Joel, a former tenant at #34, is presently in the hospital here in Carcassonne and the prognosis is not good.  French law does not permit removal from life support, apparently, until three major organs have failed, no matter what the patient's directives.  Although I am not close friends with Joel and Carol, I have socialized with them on occasion.  They were in the thick of submitting all of their necessary paperwork to become permanent residents.  If this is not a testament to living now, being now, doing now, I don't know what is.  

So this week I have felt the turning of the cosmos.  I feel connected to the Earth and to things greater than myself.  Connections to the past are strong and they have propelled me to re-connect with family and with friends.  I have been overcome by nostalgia and overwhelmed with anticipation of the future.  I feel truly alive.

Summer storm brewing in the east

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International Festival of Music

Wine, good food and dancing in the street

Ten years ago, I was in Paris for the First International Festival of Music.  Had anyone told me then that I would be living in Carcassonne and attending the 10th International Festival of Music, I would have called that person a crazy dreamer....and yet, here I am.

Band right outside of the wine bar

The Festival has grown and in cities all across France people came out to parks,  amphitheaters, public squares and in our case, in the street, to celebrate music and the longest daylight hours of the year.  Carcassonne had six or seven venues, maybe more, but I chose to attend our local "block party."  

Brought back memories

It was held just up my street toward Place Gambetta.  The wine bar across the street provided tables, chairs and the drinks, and Michel Rabat Boucherie provided the food.  A very good rock and roll band played songs all we aging American baby-boomers in attendance could sing along with, and people came out of their homes to celebrate summer.  

It had been downright hot in the afternoon; after a week and weekend of nearly winter weather, the warmth came as a welcome guest--for a while.  By the evening, however, in the shadows and with the light breezes, conditions were perfect.  

Michel gives instructions to his crew

I got there just before 8:00, and immediately had to walk back home because I had forgotten my camera.  Fortunately it was only a couple of yards.  When I got back, my former neighbor Susan had snagged a table and a glass of wine.  I then ordered my dinner, as I was hungry, and went into the wine bar for a bottle of water.  The street was already pretty lively with locals eating, drinking, talking and listening to music.  It gradually became more crowded, although never uncomfortably so. 

The young man in the center is Michel's son, Jean-Baptiste

As the group was playing an old Beach Boys tune, Surfin' USA, I had a flashback to my early teens on the east coast, walking with my friend Linda Birtles on warm summers' evenings, singing along to that very song.  In our hearts, most of us are still those teenagers.  

Jean Luc carries plates to the table

Around the corner, on Place Gambetta, a "drum line" kind of group, flying the Brazilian flag began their performance.  At times, it clashed with the beat of the rock and roll cover group that was entertaining our little party, but really, who cared? They were energetic and earnest, but will benefit from seasoning and practice. 

Brazilian Drum line at Gambetta

 

I have to confess to being not much of a wine drinker.  All those lovely vintages, with their notes of fruits and spices are completely lost on me---truly it's casting pearls before swine.  I had a bottle of water with my dinner, the "Duck Breast" plate prepared by Michel's crew.  I don't know that I have EVER had a better duck breast--it was perfectly cooked and nearly fork tender. I could cut it very easily with the provided plastic knife. Accompanied by sauteed summer vegetables, roasted potatoes and a crispy-crusted hard roll, the duck made a perfect "barbeque" dinner.  There may have been better music at some of the other spots in town, although I doubt that very much, but there was no better food anywhere!  

Cooking crew

Evidence of a good time

Street fills up

Or better company.  Many of the residents with connections to #34 congregated to share several bottles of wine, singing with the band, dancing and laughter.  At one point, I looked down the street toward the bridge (the Pont Vieux) and marveled at how happy I am that Carcassonne is my home.

La Cite watches over us as the sun sets

Traditional Dancing

I attended a traditional community dance last Saturday night and had a blast.  One of the things that I love about this place is that there is a strong community of people who unabashedly love their traditions and are doing everything in their power to preserve them.  People gather to speak and learn Occitan, teacher like Guy give of their time and talents to teach traditional music, and the city provides a place for them to meet and practice and share their progress.

What struck me first of all was the number of young musicians in the "dance" band.  There was a woman there who teaches accordion/concertina.  Her students ranged in age from maybe 7 to 60, and encompassed all levels.  They played and the rest of us danced.  I have been told that music is not available in the public schools, so teachers like these are a precious resource.  There are music "schools" where people can go to learn an instrument or to sing, but most of the music taught there is classical.  

Each level presented a piece or two, and there was a dance that "went with" the music...a traditional waltz, a non-traditional waltz in 5/4 time.  One couple in their 40's were the ones to watch--they knew all the intricate steps and movements. There was quite a bit of dancing in a circle, where partners were twirled and circled and handed off.  We stamped our feet, did some hopping and clapping and generally tried to travel in the same direction.  The lady who was teaching the steps had to be 70 if she was a day, and she danced all night, and in wedge shoes! 

Fewer than a dozen tourists were there;  this event was for locals.  Little girls were decked out in Mary Jane shoes, jumpers with t-shirts under them, ribbons in their hair.  I can't begin to tell you how delightful it was to see little girls dressed like little girls and not like little hookers-in-training.  Little boys danced with their mothers, women danced with women,  the children formed their own "inner" circle when we danced the circle dances, the open windows caught the night breezes and everyone seemed to be wearing a smile.  

There was a young accordion player who I would classify as a virtuoso.  Forget about the polka music of Lawrence Welk--this boy plays in the French style, and he held us all spellbound.  He is headed off to Paris this fall to study at the Academy of Music there.  I hope I get to hear him play once again before he leaves.  

I saw arguable the worst dancer I have ever seen in my life, having what was unarguably the best time of his life.  The night was about sharing a lineage, helping one another learn, and reveling in the movement to music of the centuries.  I cannot wait for the next one.

Fete du Pain

Today's honored guest

Getting the baguettes ready for the oven

Next into the oven

Many people believe that the Eiffel Tower symbolizes France.  For me its scope is limited to Paris.  But a baguette is a national symbol; I can't think of any other image that so readily calls to mind the entire country of France.  Today, that symbol was everywhere in Place Andre Chenier--it's the Bread Festival.  

The patron saint of bakers--more specifically, bread bakers, is Saint Honore...and his saint's day is May 16, so the festival is a little late.  But nobody seemed inclined to nitpick and boycott the festivities because the date was wrong.  

Getting the dough to rise

It began at 7 this morning, which is early for a festival, but late in the day for a boulanger.  They've been at it since early morning hours, mixing, proofing and shaping the mixture of flour, water and magic.  Many boulangeries open their doors to customers at 7 AM, and that bread didn't bake itself.

Conferring

The art of breadbaking is taught in the trade schools here. One of the (many) things I like about France is that they have made a conscious, concerted effort to keep their traditional trades alive.  There are thriving apprentice systems and confreries--kind of like guilds to teach the crafts and trades.  

Outdoor oven

Can you smell the baking bread?

There were several booths selling the products of local boulangeries--bread bakeries.  Maybe I should explain that boulangeries might sell desserts, like the occasional lemon tart or almond croissant, but bread is their mainstay.  Patisseries--pastry shops--might sell the occasional baguette or brioche, but beautiful dessert works of art are their mainstay.   

Students from one of the trade school selling their wares

Sausage, anyone?

There were also some booths selling other foodstuffs, honey, dried sausages, crepes as well as a flower vendor and an ice cream vendor.  What really surprised me was the number of "flea market" shops selling collectibles, antiques, and let's face it--junk.  I guess bric-a-brac knows no nationality.

Junk is international

Not much to do with bread, but lots of foot traffic

More junk, looking toward the stage

The organizers had erected an impressive stage and when I was there, the guild was honoring one of its long-time members.  Members of the confrerie of boulangers (Confederation of bread bakers) were wearing their caps and gowns and medallions, and the millers were there with sacks of flour and their red bandannas.  It wouldn't be France without the sashes and medallions and the speeches.

Millers act as emcees

Gowns and medals, and oh yes, the hats--Serious business

The "official" honored guest

I watched these loaves come out of that outdoor oven

Pain au raisins

Crusty, floury--yummy

I did not see one smidgen of plastic shrink wrap in evidence.  The bread was NOT uniform--it has to weigh a certain number of grams, but the loaves can look different.  There are burned and charred ends sometimes.  It's real food, not processed food product.  And the taste???!!!  I have no adequate words.  All I can say is, come visit and taste for yourself.  

Someone should have given him some bread

Hautpoul--A Medieval Village

Village sign

After lunch in Albi we headed home; our plan was to stop in whatever little hamlet caught our attention.  Jason remembered seeing a sign for a medieval village on the Carcassonne side of Mazamet, just before making the steep climb up into the Black Mountains.  We managed to spot it just in the nick of time and made our way down and then up, up, up a winding, narrow, barely-one-lane road--kind of like a logging road.  

Main Street?

In the other direction

We passed this ruin on the way in

Although we kept our fingers crossed and hoped not to encounter oncoming traffic, we were not lucky.  We did meet an oncoming car with perhaps the most inconsiderate driver ever, who REFUSED to back up to the wide spot where we could have passed.  So we were forced nearly into the side of the mountain--and jackass driver barely squeaked by, our respective side mirrors almost touched.  I thought it would be fun to come up the road on a motorcycle and Mary opted for a horse.  Certainly a tour bus wouldn't dare attempt it!  

Tidy stone cottage with roses

Charming and worth the trouble to get to

The road opened up at the top of the cliff to a statue of the Virgin Mary watching over the entire valley.  A little walk took us into the village, and I use that term in the loosest possible sense.  There are presently maybe 10 houses, some definitely occupied, others shuttered and silent, clinging to the side of a mountain .  The "street" ends at cliffside and the Tavern of Hautpoul.  Stone is the building material of choice, and there is certainly plenty of it.  The houses that still stand have a well-loved feel, even if most are probably only summer residences.

Remnants of older fortification

Down in the valley--a tannery or perhaps a mill on the river

This is a fascinating place.  It has been fought over and besieged, its residents forced to leave.  For the life of me, I cannot understand why.  You practically have to be a goat to get there, and God only knows how hard it had to be to bring in supplies.  It is encapsulated, and the residents could easily adopt a let us alone attitude, and probably did.  I was not one bit surprised to find that Simon de Monfort had his bloody hands on the place.  He was going to get rid of that "nest of heretics."  These Cathar last-stand sites are remote, difficult to access.  Why people can't let others alone is one of the greatest mysteries to me.  God knows I have my hands full just trying to keep my own life on track and there's not anything left over for trying to manage someone else's.

Tempted?

We had a drink of water out on the terrace of the Tavern.  It was run by a little dot of a woman, a twinkle in her eye and a ready laugh.  She confirmed my speculation that the marvelous tree in the "square" up the street was a chestnut--actually a marronier.  It was hosting a nightingale who was singing his heart out.  What a glorious sound!  She also told us that while she doesn't get hordes of tourists, there are those who find their way there as part of the pilgrimage path, especially the San Jacques de Compostelle journey.

Great old chestnut tree in the town square

Statue of Virgin Mary stands vigilant

Jason could not see the allure of living there, but I could.  At least for a period of time to write, to reflect, to soak up the history of this fought-over place. Maybe that way I could get a better understanding of why it was so desirable.

View from the statue's perch to Mazamet below

I am sure these caves also sheltered people who were hunted in the name of religion