MORE HALF-BAKED THOUGHTS FROM SHARON

Let’s talk toilets. I’d like to thank Spain for providing toilet seats. In France, in an effort to hurry you along I guess, all the toilet seats had been removed from public toilets I visited. I pictured a guy in an official toilet seat van going around the country with a wrench . Where they could possibly be stockpiled is anyone’s guess. ‘Didn’t much like that (or some of the even more primitive arrangements they provide that I won’t discuss - but if you’ve traveled in China or Nepal recently and used public facilities, you’ll know what I mean and your nose is curling into a sneer now as you remember them.) Gracias, Spain!! Thank you too, dear England.

I’m convinced that some of the most talented musicians can be found in the subway systems of London, Paris and Barcelona, as well as other sidewalk venues in smaller towns. Truly amazing talent is being shared for the price of a donation all over the world. I like that thought and loved spending time listening to them.

When they learn we live in the US, everybody wants to talk about Barack Obama. They’re so excited that our country seems to have come to its senses with this most recent election. The men always speak of him being “muy intelligente” or “muy forte” (strong and confident) but many of the ladies simply smile slyly and say “guapo” (sexy). [George Bush, by the way, is dismissed with the international symbol denoting “loco” - the old finger twirled alongside the head where the brain should be. Fairly accurate depiction in my book.]

If pizza wasn’t available in France the country would starve. I know we say there is a Starbucks on every corner of Seattle, but I swear we’ve counted up to 4 pizza parlors in one block of French towns. It was offered on every menu we saw. Speaking of menus - I love the European custom of displaying menu and prices by the door. I know this is a movement that has been catching on in the US over the past two decades, but it should be encouraged by patrons and embraced by all restaurants soon I think.

I still can’t get used to having dinner so late! Maybe this is just old age creeping up on me, I’ll concede that‘s a probability. Most restaurants won’t even start serving until 8 p.m., (although some will offer limited service a bit earlier in tourist areas). We do love the Spanish ‘tapas bars’ where you can get small portions of very tasty, fresh creations at very low prices - that’s been the mainstay of our dinners lately - there’s tons of variety and all goes down well with a glass of Spanish Cava, cold beer or water with ice. Yes, ice. You can eat tapas at any time in the afternoon. Gracias, Spain!

I’m still incredulous about how hard it was to find a cup of coffee or tea in the morning in France (apart from Paris). Of all the positively wonderful little bakeries we visited each and every morning for a goodie, only one in our entire 4 weeks there had a dusty little coffee making machine in the corner. I almost kissed the flour-covered baker! No milk was available and the paper cup was small, but it’s the thought that counts. One evening when we were strolling in Sarlat I noticed that a bakery with a sign announcing that it opened at 7 a.m. so I asked the lady behind the counter (in French) if they offered coffee in the morning. “Du café?!?! NON!! Pain.” (bread), she said gesturing the racks all around her. She seemed so insulted by the question you would’ve thought I’d asked if I could borrow her underwear. (Hmmm, considering my French skills, maybe I did. ) Walking away in disgrace I noticed an actual coffee shop across the street. The door sign indicated they opened at 11 a.m. Who gets up at 11 a.m.?!

Interesting factoid - we saw acres and acres of corn growing in the heart of France, yet it dawned on me that we never saw it on any menu, nor stuffed into the ubiquitous baguette, nor even sprinkled casually on a pizza. I surmised that they sold it to Spain or made vegetable oil from it since you can‘t find popcorn or corn chips in France, but the truth is far more sinister. Ken learned that it’s the mainstay of the food shoved down the throats of the poor imprisoned geese whose livers are destined to become foie gras. Needless to say, personally I’d just eat the corn or go hungry before I supported that industry (a huge industry in the Dordogne region). The Frenchman that Ken learned this from actually curled his lip with disgust when speculating on humans eating corn, (just like I did when I thought about force-feeding a goose to eat its fat liver I guess.)

I’m in love with the bright mosaics of the late visionary artist Gaudi in Spain. I have trouble though understanding his giant cathedral, that has been a work in progress for over a hundred years. The Sagrada Familia, is destined to be the iconic image of Barcelona, they say; but it’s his open air Park Guell a couple of miles from it that is a treasure trove of whimsical organic shapes and mosaics that just make you smile. The cathedral looks to me like an exercise in Play-Doh by a cub scout troop on Ritalin. It just seems incongruous with the dogma of religion (which may have been his intent, come to think of it.) We’ll never know though since he got hit by a cable car in 1929 and more and more spires and knick-knacks and doo-dads have been added, seemingly by committee. I’ll try to remember to add a link to this of both places. (If I forget, be sure to Google them.)

Remember the scene from Midnight Cowboy where Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) bangs on the hood of the New York cab that honks at him as he crosses the street and yells “I’m walkin’ here!! I’m walkin’ here!!” Well, that’s the way it has seemed to us here in both France and Spain. (Not in England, where courtesy usually reigns though.) Picture a sidewalk wide enough for two couples to pass….as you approach, the tourist couple (us) will move to one side. The locals will then take their chunk right out of the middle forcing you into single file. If there are 4 people coming at you they will be walking 4 abreast and they won’t make the expected effort to break the group into two pairs to make room on the sidewalk. I guess you’re expected to accommodate that maneuver by flattening yourself up against a wall or leaping into the gutter. On wider sidewalks we’ve had squadrons of 6 abreast come at us with nary an acknowledgment that, well… “We’re walkin’ here!!” Needless to say, it’s not a game Ken plays well. While I’m more likely to step into the gutter or leap into traffic for them, lately Ken’s tolerance for this cultural quirk has waned and he’s just started walking fixedly right through the middle like bowling. Fortunately there are no sidewalks on Camano Island….(watch out though, Stanwood!)

Highlights of this trip for me, (so I won‘t forget or confuse it later with another as I tend to do):
Watching a family of foxes playing in a field at dusk behind our English cottage.
Fields full of giant sunflowers as far as you could see in France.
The incredible history at every turn, making you realize just how much you don’t know.
The Eiffel Tower aglow at night and then reflected in the windows of our courtyard.
People picnicking, mingling and dancing along the Seine on a Saturday night.
Walking in Fairlight Hill in Hastings on a beautiful summer day with all the rabbits.
Lulu, the Normandy farm dog I wanted to take home.
English sausage rolls.
That awe-inspiring first glimpse of the Mont St. Michel in France.
The festive nature of the Gaudi mosaics and the delightful surprise of wild Barcelona parrots.
Paella with giant prawns washed down with ice cold Cava on a warm evening.
Fresh strawberries, like jewels, from a little roadside stand in the Domme area of France.
The polite drivers of England, their jaunty little ‘thank you’ wave a continual delight.
Finding my treasure of antique bottle stoppers at an outdoor flea market in Perpignan, France.
Following the footsteps of Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Walking the maze inlay in Chartres Cathedral and finding Saint Dunstan in Canterbury Cathedral.
Butterflies thriving in lush English gardens and woodlands.
Sparrows that ate crumbs from my hand at the castle in England.
The fairytale beauty of the timeless Dordogne region and seeing it from a boat on the river.
The kindness and friendship extended to us by strangers in all three countries.
The clean, broad, tree-lined streets of Barcelona that invite you to explore.
The lavender fields and hillside villages of caramel-colored stone in Provence.
Feeling welcomed and right at home in English pubs and French sidewalk cafes.
The glorious azure coves of the French Riviera.
Sitting in a town square at night listening to a Beatles’ music concert in France with the locals and one solitary cat on a narrow ledge taking it all in.

CAMP NOU

Ken in Camp Nou

We started out tonight planning on finding the best Paella in town but as we walked up to the diagonal to pick up the metro for town we felt we were swimming up against the current. There was a horde of folks walking and quickly down towards Camp Nou.

Couple of guys were sitting at an outside table sucking on beers so I went over and asked did they speak English. Funny they could have been scousers, one, with a shaved head and a butterfly band aid at the corner of his eye and the other looked like his back up. They perked right up and said "A little" so I asked was there a match on. No, the stadium is open, free while they introduce Zlatan Ibrohimovic' they said.

We chatted for a while and concluded that it would be a tragedy if Xabi Alonzo really did got to Real. They thought he was a bigger threat than the gay little Portuguese guy. (Their words)

Well Sharon insisted that we go and see what it's all about so we went back to the hotel and picked up my Liverpool cap and walked down to Camp Nou and joined the throng. There were estimates on TV of 70,000 there. I'd say 50k but that is still a phenomenal crowd just to welcome a new player.

Just to see the new 65 million Euro guy.

Fun crowd and I got on great with them. Walked along one row and got high fives from them all. Could a Liverpool Cap be that good. After all we beat them the last couple of times we played. Lots of good comments about Rafa and Liverpool’s Spanish contingent.

Lots of singing and chanting, like”
Oh le le
Oh la la
Ser del Barca es
El millor que hi ha. (That’s Catalonian for “The very best”)

My fav was:
Madrid, Cabron
Saluda al Campion!

Cabron as I know it means someone who likes (really likes) goats!

Lots of positive energy in the crowd with the wave going and the singing.
The speech making seemed to go on for hours….in fact it did!

This was closer than my shot

Ibrhimovic’ came out and the crowd went wild, a new hero for the club. He’d never done any good against Liverpool or the Champions league for International Milan come to that. We’d beaten them as well.

All in all a fun impromptu night out.

Not to start any rumous at Anfield but I saw this guy there.

BARCELONA!

Just a quick photo overview of our rambling today through the city. It's a place you could fall for. It's cleaner than most cities we've visited. I'd love to write more but we have to go out and see more soon.'

I'll post the photos and add captions as I get back to it.

THROW GRANDPA FROM THE TRAIN

It wasn’t until the train doors closed and all our luggage started to hurtle down the tracks toward Barcelona without us that I started to feel a wave of panic.

Fortunately the Spanish policeman (to whom we had been remanded by the conductor) chased the train, forcing it to stop so I could retrieve our bags from the overhead rack while Ken talked animatedly to the English speaking officer and his backup with the giant muzzled Rottweiller on the platform.

“Vamanos!” (“Get out of here!”) the nasty conductor snarled at me and pointed his finger to the door as I struggled with the bags. “Welcome to Spain,” I muttered back (the elbow I gave him to his gut as punctuation was intended to seem purely accidental, as I dragged a bag over his foot). The previously noisy train car, full of vacationing teenagers from Spain, Norway, Australia, USA, and France fell silent with wide eyes as they tried to guess what crime these harmless-seeming old gringos could be guilty of that would merit being banished from a train 4 stops outside of Barcelona.

But I’m getting ahead of myself……….
The trip from France to Spain began the day before when we went to the train ticket office. The purchase had been a triumph of the high school French classes. I was able to request the two tickets for the following day (future tense) leaving from the next station down the line, and even remembered to ask for the Senior Discount (“Reduction pour age, s’il vous plait?) - my crowning glory of our French-speaking sojourn. The clerk looked skeptical that Ken could be as old as I said (701), but she seemed a little less incredulous when I corrected that to 71. We left with tickets in hand with Ken patting me on the back for the fete.

The next day with sandwiches packed we boarded the train in Perpignon in France, hugging the Mediterranean coastline and marveling at the old castle ruins on the hills. We made a smooth connection in Port Bou, Spain, bound for Barcelona on a 2 hour ride through the countryside in a train car loaded with teenagers headed home from holiday camp. About a half hour before the train was scheduled to arrive in Barcelona and the view had changed to suburbs, the conductor stopped by our seats to collect our tickets. With a nice smile Ken handed them to him and we watched as he sniffed audibly and straightened his shoulders to the official position, his little moustache twitching. While I speak a little bit of Spanish from our trips to Mexico, I couldn’t understand anything he said, but noticed that his face had clouded and his demeanor had changed after looking at our tickets. The spittle from his fast moving mouth formed a mist around his head. “No comprende.” I said hopefully with a small shrug, trying to arrange my features into something lacking in criminal malice.

The more we repeated that we couldn’t understand the nature of his displeasure, the angrier and more animated he got and the faster and louder he spoke. As if that would help….

The first word I understood fully was “Policia” as he brandished a cellphone like a weapon and punched the numbers for the police with full force and vigor. The train car fell silent. “Passeports!” he barked at us after conversing with the police. “No.” Ken said calmly to me. “We won’t be giving our passports to him, he’s not even giving us our tickets back.” To the conductor Ken requested an English-speaking employee. “Policia!” the little tyrant barked back. “Okay, English-speaking police then,” Ken said reasonably, arms folded in a final gesture of defiance.

At the next stop the little train tyrant hurled Spanish invectives that indicated a very strong desire on his part that we leave the train and meet the police who had assembled to meet us on the platform. So we did. The train car fell silent. At full Spanish volume the conductor enlightened the English-speaking policeman about the nature of our ‘crime’. On and on he went with spittle flying and hands flapping. The policeman’s face had developed a quizzical expression as he nodded and dismissed the conductor so he could speak to us privately. Not only did the conductor leave, apparently sensing that the police lacked sufficient enthusiasm for incarcerating or torturing us, spinning in a huff on his heel as he went, but he immediately gave the go-ahead for the train to leave us there --- without any of our luggage from the overhead rack!! The doors slammed shut and the train startled to rumble away.

After the policeman took charge, by running to the engineer (leaving the muzzled Rottweiller and his associate to guard us) I was able to drag everything off the train while Ken listened and nodded to the policeman. Both of them were smiling now. What could this mean?

The crime? The ticket agent had given us the Senior Discount we had requested of 3 Euros (about $5.00) on our tickets but the conductor chose to interpret that as some form of cheating the railway on our part. Making us ’banditos’ apparently. The policeman rolled his eyes and immediately arranged for us to transfer onto the next train, apologized profusely, and welcomed us to Spain. He and Ken talked soccer for a couple of minutes and we were on our way. I resisted the temptation to pet the doggy, probably wisely.

“Oh, by the way,” the policeman said in heavily accented English as we were parting, “Who is this Senor Deescount hombre anyway?”

ACROSS THE SOUTH COAST

We moved the last couple of days - right across from Cannes on the Eastern coast of the Med to Perpignan down in the Southwest corner, in preparation for another change of countries.

We stopped in for a visit and to spend a night at Narbonne. After finding a friendly place to stay and having refreshing showers and a rest, we ventured out into the town for dinner and a walkabout.

First find the castle (Perpinan)

We’ve found now that you look for the local Castle, Cathedral or seat of old power it usually has a nice tree lined square surrounded with cafes and restaurants. Trouble is that ALL the menus are the same and can get quite expensive. We have found though that the best and most popular French food can be found in every restaurant and every second block in any town, is the Pizza! In Narbonne we settled for pizza each and very good I must say.

Then you'll find the food.

Restaurants along the riverside.

After the food fest we wandered the town center and in one small square we found a group of people, who looked for the most part regulars but with a couple of tourists who knew what they where doing, enjoying an evening dancing the Tango. We stayed and watched for a while with my two left feet tapping in time to the music.

It really does take two.

Yesterday we headed down to where we are at the moment, Perpignan. Found a place for us and checked out the car return place at the train station. We didn’t have to get it back until 7pm so we took off to explore the beach towns that stretch down to the foothills of the Pyrenees and the border with Spain. One thing is obvious and a bit of a surprise is the Spanish influence. Especially knowing how chauvinistic the French are about their language and lifestyle. Seems though that these folks here consider themselves Catalonian as much as French.



Now we’re getting ready, packing up…or Sharon is while I do the important stuff. Not having a car to pile things into is going to be fun. We’ll call a taxi to get us to the station and one from the station to hotel. The car drop went smoothly and while at the station noticed the good looking sandwiches and drinks we can get for the train ride.

The next chapter is from Sunny Spain and the great city of Barcelona and some greatly anticipated paella for Sharon.

A "DAY" IN PROVENCE.

Went for a nice quiet drive through the hill towns, vineyards and lavender fields of Provence. Another “to die for’ area.
One of the many hillside towns

Before I left home I read up on Peter Mayle’s book “A Year In Provence” The area is just like the book, what a surprise! In fact we even drove though Monieux the town and the area he wrote about. Lots of renovated old and large stone farmhouses, quite a large expat community there trying it for themselves. I think I’m outpriced there now.

Sharon having a glass of wine in a really friendy cafe on one of the many hillside towns...looking across to another one.


Lot’s of lavender fields but not a lot of lavender goods for sale. We finally figured that the lavender was for the bees. Honey is one of the big sale items. Lavender honey.




Some hills you built on


And some you just go through.

AND TALKING ABOUT PARIS……

Our apartment there was pretty special. Definitely cozy and you’d have to be really good friends or family to be more than two but for us it was perfect.

Nice little kitchen with everything there, bathroom, Sitting room with a good TV and DVR. Books and information on how and where to get around.

The living room/ Lots more photos on the website.

The decorating is fun, the owners are artists living in Seattle and have a lovely decorating touch as well as some original artwork hanging.
It’s situated in one of the nicer areas of the city, couple of minutes from the Eiffel Tower, the Seine and in short reach of all the spots one shouldn’t miss in Paris.

When We first started looking for a place in Paris and in that area I sent out 6 or so emails to small cozy hotels that had been recommended, each time optimistically waiting for that answer, sobbing in my sleep when it didn’t come. Then we thought of renting an apartment and looked through the lists of what was out there.

Catching my eye was the listing for the 7th Arrondissement ad, then finding that the owners where just a quick phone call away. Tom Pors was so easy and helpful to work with, it was like renting from a friend.

Tom and his wife Elena where in Paris just the week or so before us.
Find them on line here, with more pics:
http://www.homeaway.com/vacation-rental/p226911

If we get the opportunity to visit Paris again, we’ll call Tom and Elena.

THE CAR

We’ve had it some two weeks now, ever since Paris. It’s funky, fugly and fun. It’s tiny by US standards but sometimes feels too big here. It’s a 5 speed diesel that works just perfectly. First gear will pull away on the flat without any throttle, third gear gets a workout on these windy, hilly roads and is really versatile. Fifth will match anyone on the motorways. Up to the speed limit of course. Although when I'm overtaking a couple of trucks at 130KPH Sharon likens it to being in an out of control shopping cart!!!
That doesn't apply to the Alpha’s, Ferraris and the myriad of Porches I saw on the Corniche yesterday.

On the bank of the Rhone at Arles.

It’s a two door or three if you count the back and that’s what turns heads. I can jam into the tightest parking spot and people will smile, like “let’s see you get out of that!” I push the button and the doors slide back either side. The criteria of course, is if I can get my butt out, then I’m in.

Your car awaits.

When you’re coming back to the car just press the button, step into your seat without all the hassle. The people in the sidewalk cafes, get a kick out of that. The big factor is, at home in my car, no key in the ignition, the doors and windows don’t work. This one works at anytime off the key outside or onboard buttons. It's tall as well so I can see over those "Little" cars.

I’m actually getting to like it.

Although driving this on the Corniche couldn't be all bad.

A GRAND DAY OUT

Struck a line though a few things from my ‘minor’ bucket list today.
* Drove the Corniche highway along the Cote d’azur.
* Visited St Tropez in search of Bridgette Bardot. Out of luck with the second part there.
* Visited Cannes, as Sharon searched for Jonny Depp and his house
No luck there either, but we did read on line that he was in this area buying a vineyard and farmhouse for his wife.

St Tropez harbour.

Quite a drive, steep windy, narrow roads and chocked tight with traffic and on a Tuesday. Remember when we were asking “Where was every one in France?” Well now we know, they’re here. The coast was overwhelming for outstanding scenes and one could see why the people were there. Sharon and I felt we were 30 years too late though.



We took the ‘freeway’ back I was on burnout having to concentrate so hard on the driving.

The little town we’re staying in, is amazing, it’s a sort of backwater off the tourist route but is a pretty or prettier than the high tourist towns. Nice Marina just down the road, we stopped there for our coffee and croissant’s this morning. People were friendly as we walked by and because it was our second morning the coffee shop folks greeted us like regulars. We can see down on the beach where the locals or people who know and enjoying the late afternoon.

The local marina

We’ll walk down near the marina tonight there’s a free concert called Soiree “BEATLES” with a group called “Liverpool” That sounds like it could be fun. Well, we’ll let you know.

THE CONCERT

The concert was actually quite good, they were obviously very French but they’d put a lot of time in listening and studying the words and music. The lead guitar ‘George’ was especially good. Looked more like a computer nerd than a guitarist. Chubby long haired ‘John’ was OK. The drummer would rate with Ringo, ’Paul’ did a lot of fun stuff , “Yesterday” and all the classics.
Jeanne!!! on the keyboard added a lot for the instrumental bits for the later years. She also sang and played the Lennon solo “Imagine” that was heavily accented but touching.

They did a good two and a half hours virtually non stop, good sound system and lighting out in the park under the trees. The local beer places around the park put all their chairs and tables out and served drinks until after midnight. Lots of Champagne flowed as did the beer.

When they started tiring the words became a little slurred. “Day Treeper” and “Fazzer Mickeenzie” from Eleanor Rigby, were real hits.

On the whole it was really well done, it recaptured the 60’s spirit in the crowd as they became involved. Can’t beat that for the price on a warm summer evening.

CATCHING UP!

It’s been a few days since any WeeFee so I have a bit of catching up to do. We drove down from Arles today to the Med.. The real Med that is the parts we’ve seen up to now have been sort of uninspiring to say the least but today has been the stuff of movies.

We found this small but classy hotel. We were getting tired if driving and just followed the signs up these dusty roads. The parking lot was gravel and dust but then we walked through the gate and looked right out across their patio to the bay. Oh my!

This is the view from our patio, not too bad.

Showered up and went shopping into the village. Had a beer on the waterfront and I had to go and walk the boat docks to see what they had there. Then we took a picnic dinner out onto our private patio.

The lobby

I’ll be playing catch up for a while I can see. I’m ready to put my feet up now, after a day of driving, the beer and the wine.
Life is good.

SARLAT AND THE DORDOGNE

So many castles so little time!

That’s how it is around here. During the “Hundred Years War” over 1,000 castles were built up and down the rivers and it seems the Plantagenet’s were involved in most of them. A couple the ones photographed here were Richards, and built with taxes from England.

Sharon and I, like a lot of people fell in love with this area. Saw a couple of stone houses that we might just buy with our lottery winnings.

We’ll start doing the lottery when we get back.