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.
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