Of old ladies and old houses...

There are a lot of little old ladies living by themselves here in France. I suspect that it has to do with the vaunted longevity of the French which in large part is due to the excellent health care system, genes, and diet.

For what ever reason, but here, it seems that women survive men by quite a few years. I suspect that this might be due to the fact that some French women have the ability to nag their husbands to death. But that's another story.

In our street, two lovely old ladies lived side by side for many years, directly in front of our house. They had identical duplexes that were the result of a large, old house that was cut in two. Thus, each had a small garden in front, and a window with shutters and a front door.

The lady on the left has cats and a small dog. Her garden is full of flowers in the spring, and in spite of her advanced age, she dresses up and drives to the market in her aged, little blue car. She is very friendly and never fails to greet us with a smile and a twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes.

We hardly ever saw the lady that lived in the house on the right. She kept to herself, rarely tended her garden, which became choked with weeds and dead grass. While the lady on the left kept her house prim and proper, always having it painted after an especially harsh winter, and replacing roof tiles blown away by the furious storms we get from the north Atlantic.

The house of the lady on the right fell into disrepair and we soon found out why. She had gotten so old and frail that she could not take care of herself, much less so of her house. One day an ambulance took her away to a nursing home. A few month after, a "for sale" sign was placed on her door by a real estate agent; we knew then she had died.

A few weeks ago, the real estate agent showed up with a man and a woman. We assumed, and my wife, with her incredible ability to sniff out the most guarded piece of information in our neighborhood, confirmed that indeed they were the dead lady's closest relatives. They were now the owners of the house.

French laws are very clear and concise in terms of inheritance. Wills are all important and nothing is left unclaimed lest it go to the State.

The new owners (it was rumored that the man was a nephew and not a son of the lady who had died) took one look at our street, went into the house and came out shaking their heads, and left, never to come back. A few days later the "for sale" sign was taken down. The house had been sold.

The door was left unlocked so we went in one night. My wife had the fantasy of convincing her daughter to buy the thing and use it as a summer home. But, upon inspection of the premises, even that fantasy was untenable: there was no indoor toilet or bath. The kitchen was an old stove used more for heating than for cooking. No closets, or central heating. The poor lady had lived in dire conditions.

Soon the new owners showed up. They are having the house refurbished. Contractors came and go. Huge trucks with materials and workmen have showed up. Soon the house will be looking spic and span.

That's what happens to houses here. Like many things a person owns at the time of his or her death, a house is recycled. Thus, one sees a lot of refurbishing going on but very little new construction. In fact, since I arrived, six of the houses on our street have changed owners, mostly to the children of the former owner. That's a lot of little old ladies gone.

I said to my wife, "You know, this inheritance business would drive people in the Americas crazy. One of the measures of the economy in the US is housing starts. We are forever building new stuff over there."

"What happens to old houses?" she asked perplexed.

"We tear them down and build new ones, of course," I said facetiously.

"That is so sad," she said. "What happened to your mother's house, the house you grew up in?"

"It was sold then torn down. They didn't care for the house, they just wanted the land," I said, suddenly realizing that that was a sad thought.

"Here in France we are reluctant to let things go," said my wife. "Perhaps is has to do with the way we look at history or the fact that we cherish old things. Look around the house; there are so many things that once belonged to my mother or my grandmother. And, things like that chest that is 400 years old."

"I know," I agreed. "Some of our friends' houses look like antique shops. I am afraid that we in the Americas live in the "out with the old, in with the new" consumer economies. We have grown rich by rebuilding our countries every twenty years or so. We're not surrounded by history, as people are here. We are surrounded by perishables."

A few days after our conversation, another house a few meters away was also emptied in preparation for renovation. It too had been lived in by an old lady who had been moved to a nursing home. Her three sons had decided to completely redesign the interior as a preparation for making a summer home for their families.

"At least they are going to keep the outside intact. They won't change it," said my well informed wife.

"It will be just the shell, a sort of imitation of what it once was."

"Yes, but it will keep its look, its old style. It won't change the charm of our street." She sighed, "After all, that's what's important."

In other news....

Most days, when we sit down for lunch, we have the television on and tuned to a national channel (usually France 2) so we can see and listen to the news. I consider these news cast as something less than serious, something between, say, gossip and yesterday's newspapers--the back pages; but my wife's opinion is quite the opposite: to her the information the bouncy, frothy blond lady reads is something between Holy Scripture and Words to Live By.

I don't quite understand why the French have this fixation with their newscast which are as bad an anywhere else in the world. I have stated in other blogs that the country practically comes to a stand still for the eight o'clock news at night and that any time there is a political or sexual scandal (which here in France is often the same thing) one finds it hard to find a newspaper at the kiosk or press shop. Maybe it was all those years of wars, rebellion, and social mayhem that have made people very apprehensive. I guess that if I had experienced Roman legions storming the city walls, or German tanks rumbling through town streets, I would also like to be in the know so I could get the hell out of town.

But, going back to our midday or evening meals, I must say that no news item worthy of even the most unfocused attention goes without my comment. Our conversations at meal times go something like this:

Newslady: ...hurricane Harriet has now been declared a category three storm and is...

My Wife: There ought to be a law that says that hurricanes should have male names, too.

Me: There is a law and it has been in effect for several years...

My Wife: Ah, bon? Why did they have only women's name before, I wonder?

Me: Because hurricanes act more like women than they do like men. You see, if a hurricane acted like a man it would say: "I am going to go and destroy Puerto Rico, then take a swipe at Cuba, batter Miami, then I am out of there; I will be off to the Atlantic in no time". Right to the point, no messing about. But, hurricanes act like women: "Now, let me see: should I go to Nicaragua? No, no, no, that's been done last year by Gertrude. How about Can Cun? Oh, that is so passé. Maybe, uh, Bermuda. Its been a while since...oh, look at that lovely island, let me go back and see what that is about." You see? That is why they were names after women because hurricane paths resemble the path a woman takes when they go shopping.

My Wife: That's ridiculous.

Newslady:...and Mr. Strauss-Khan commented that...

My Wife: Ah, that poor man! Look how tired and drawn he looks.

Me: That's because he has probably been chasing the police women around the jail. He ought to change his name to Stray-Cat or better yet, Strauss-Can!

My Wife: What do you mean, Strauss-Can?

Me: I mean that he certainly CAN! He can have a shower, have sex with the cleaning lady, and be at an IMF meeting all within a half hour. The man certainly can! Hence, Strauss-Can.

My Wife: Boff, you never take anything seriously.

Newslady: ...the rebels have now taken control of Gaddafi's compound...

Me: I bet that instead of three thousand pairs of shoes they will find three thousand silly hats.

My Wife: What are you talking about? What three thousand pairs of shoes?

Me: Don't you remember when people broke into the presidential palace in the Philippines and they found that Imelda Marcos has amassed a collection of three thousand pairs of shoes? Well, the colonel there seems to have a fancy for silly hats. Have you seen him wearing a fur hat like what a Russian soldier would wear in the Arctic? And in the middle of the desert? No wonder the man's brain is fried.

My Wife: I never understand what you are talking about and if you go on with your silly comments I will not be able to hear the news.

Me: You don't have to: just get yesterday's newspapers; that woman is just regurgitating old news. Good God, just look at that video of Gaddafi, he looks like he's twenty-five years old. That was taken before he became a wax figure.

Now the weather lady has come on. She dances around explaining with horror that temperatures will rise to 30 degrees Celsius by midday tomorrow.

Me: Thirty degrees? Hell, that's how COOL it is in northern Mexico at two o'clock in the morning. Boys play football in forty degree weather over there! I bet people will be dropping like flies here due to this "canicuuuuule", ha, ha, ha.

My Wife: (getting up from the table) Augh! Tonight I will watch the news upstairs. It is impossible here with you.

Me: Be sure to take an electric fan with you. I measured the temperature in the bedroom and it was a sizzling twenty-five, ha, ha, ha.

My Wife: Augh! Mechant!

It is not always like that, though. Sometimes I am quiet. She watches her news and I watch the BBC on my IPad.

Back to Blistering Biarritz

My wife surprised me last night by saying, "Let's go for a walk."

I say I was surprised because it is usually harder to get her out of the house than it is to get a goat out of a cornfield--I mean when getting her out of the house means going for a walk.

It was ten o'clock and it was still around 28° C. Balmy was the word that came to mind.

We walked toward the old lighthouse, which is just seven or eight blocks away. Most of the summer mob had fled back to Paris and waiting jobs, schools, and sundry occupations so the streets were quiet, with few cars about.

At the lighthouse, there were also few cars, but we could tell from the license plates that they were locals. It seems that we who live here were ready to take back our town. We sat down on a bench to watch the lights of Biarritz that were bright and cheerful. Their reflection glimmered against the dark sea whose lazy waves seemed to say that it too was finally resting from the crowds that had frolicked in it just a few days before.

The air was so clear we could see the lights of Spain in the distance; overhead, the beacons of the late-night plane to Paris blinked among the stars.

"This is a perfect night for seeing shooting stars," said my wife. I started to sing an old Perry Como hit:

"Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away..."

"You have a song for every occasion," said my wife,

"I have an OLD song for every occasion," I corrected.

Around midnight, we walked back home. On the way we noticed that some houses were now open (those whose owners were returning from vacation) and others were now closed and shuttered (those whose owner's vacation had now ended).

We noticed that the windows of a cottage we both like very much were brightly lit. We stood for a moment looking into the cottage's sitting room with its shelves full of books, its stuffed chairs, and desk piled with papers.

"It looks so cozy," said my wife. "And, somehow it looks as if a writer lives here."

"That's because that desk reminds you of mine. It is just as disorderly and piled with stuff."

But I did agree that the house looks as warm and inviting as an English cottage.

Along the avenue that leads to the Biarritz golf course, we saw that the large, stately mansions that had been open and brightly lit when we left three weeks ago, were now closed tighter than a miser's wallet.

"Shall I ring the doorbell," said my wife mischievously.

"No," I said, "you'll only wake up the poor night watchman they leave to guard the property."

Just as we turned the corner into our neighborhood, a large, black Rottweiler came up behind us. He was panting and trotting along with his tongue out as if he had been running for some time. We noticed that it was alone, with no owner in sight.

"The poor thing must be lost," said my wife, "or it has escaped from its home."

In Biarritz, it is unusual to see a dog by itself, loose in the streets without an owner holding it on a leach or at least walking along with it.

My wife tried to pet it as it walked along with us so the dog jumped up and put it large paws on her nearly knocking her down.

"You'd better leave it alone," I said. "It looks pretty anxious and scared."

The dog followed us home but when we closed our gate behind us, he looked up at us with a sorrowful look in its eyes. Deciding we were not its owners and this was not his home, he trotted off, panting and scratching its nails on the pavement as it ran.

The street was utterly silent and we could hear the dogs panting even as he was now blocks away and the darkness had swallowed it body.

Upstairs, I went into our bedroom to open the balcony doors so we could have some fresh, night air.

"Is the dog gone? Is he still there?" asked my wife.

"No, he's gone," I replied. "As gone as this summer's vacation."

On The Road Agaiin...and Again...and Again.

My wife and I can get lost in a parking lot. And, I don't mean one of those huge, hectares and hectares of parking space common to a super, mega store or a major league ball park; I am talking about the small parking lots like the one in front of the B&B Hotel were we stayed on the way home from Paris; here is a scene from our latest drama:

"Where's the car?" asks my wife in an alarmed tone.

"Right in front of the room" I answer confidently.

"No, its not," she tells me.

Now I am alarmed. I jump out of bed and go to the window. The car is not there. The worst thoughts run through my head: it has been stolen, all our baggage is gone, my computer, my Ipad! Augh! Disaster has been visited upon us! What shall we do? What shall we do?

We go outside and verify that the car is NOT in front of the room.

"Wait," I say. "Exactly what did we do last night?"

"We went out to dinner,that's all."

"And when we came back we came in that way," I say pointing out to the West.

"No, we came in that gate over there," she says pointing to the East.

We then run around the hotel parking lot like chickens chased by a fox. And, there was the car, on the other side of the hotel.

"How did the car get here?" asks my wife.

I sigh, "I guess we were on the wrong side of the hotel when we came back from dinner last night, and we decided to just leave the car there. Then, we forgot."

It believe that had I stayed twenty years in the Sea Scouts, and my wife had stayed as many years in the Girl Scouts, neither one of us would have gotten a merit badge in map reading or compass direction expertise.

For example, today we left Paris. I had studied the directions given on the Mappy App I have on my Ipad. I had scouted the exit from the city when I took a bus ride into town and saw that there were BIG BLUE SIGNS reading A10 (Bordeaux). It was as if the traffic people of Paris knew we were in town and that dumb clucks like us need explicit and unmistakable signs to be able to leave the city without any mishaps.

I also loaded up our GPS with the route Paris-Biarritz and as soon as we started the car it began to give us directions. It too seemed to take for granted that we are less than skilful at direction finding and it seemed almost to say, "Now listen carefully, you dumb clucks, and follow my directions explicitly or you will get lost, as you usually do."

So, off we went. Just go straight as indicated by the GPS and there will be no trouble, I thought. A couple of blocks from the house, the GPS told us to turn right and then to "suivre cette route" (follow that road) until further instructions.

The first part, we did fine. It was on the "until further instructions" part that things started to get out of hand: We came to a fork on the road. I saw a sign, a blue sign. The GPS kept shouting to follow the route, my wife kept urging me to go right, I saw the sign on the left, I turned left! Augh! Wrong turn, now we were headed for center city Paris. The GPS is urging me to turn around at the nearest roundabout. Now my wife was on the phone asking her son in law for help. "We took the wrong road. We are lost!"

I spotted a traffic light with an indication that one could turn left. At the urging of the GPS, I made a "demi-tour" and headed back the way we came. As by a miracle, a huge, blue sign appeared before us. It read, "A10 Bordeaux".

"Ah," we sighed in relief.

My wife said, "It wouldn't surprise me if the GPS said we are a pair of idiots."

"And, rightly so," I grudgingly admitted.

But once on the right road, I cockily said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," agreed my wife. Her phone rang. Son-n-law wanted to know if we were OK. She cheerily told her all was well with the world.

A few moments later, she asked, "Why did you turn of the road="

"I saw a blue sign," I explained.

"Did you? and what did it say?"

"Well, it was blue and it was big, so I thought it was for the A10 Bordeaux highway. Unfortunately, they also put up big blue signs for Versailles."

"Ah, don't believe every big, blue sign you see, eh?"

"No, I guess not," I said sheepishly.

"Why didn't you go where I told you to go?" She asked.

"Because I didn't believe you. You always get us into trouble."

"But, I wouldn't have this time," she said.

I had to agree she was right.

Tomorrow we follow The Road to Compunction.

The Unbearable Lateness of Being

We can't seem to leave the house on time no matter how hard we try or how much we set our minds to that purpose. We set double alarm clocks the night before a trip or flight, we pack and ready our baggage days before we are to leave, we say good-bye to friends and family and warn neighbors that we are leaving at dawn, yet...and yet, the day we are to leave we are running around looking for glasses, a camera, tickets, sundry indispensable articles of clothing, addresses of the place we are to stay, and just about anything else that will set us so far off schedule that we arrive at the airport with minutes to spare, or leave the house and head for the highway midst a crowd or equally late risers.

Let's say we want to go to a movie at our favorite movie house, The Royal in Biarritz, and the movie starts at, say, 9:15. Around eight o'clock I say,

"We'd better leave early because this is a popular film and there's bound to be a crowd."

"Oh, yes, but we've plenty of time," says my wife looking at her watch.

We watch the news (the snooze in my private terminology)and that brings us up to 8:30 PM.

"We should leave in about 15 minutes," I say calmly, "so we can park the car and get good seats, our favorite ones."

"Yes, yes," says my wife, "fifteen minutes, OK, we've plenty of time."

Now it is a quarter to nine.

"OK, let's go," I say.

"Yes, yes, I'll just put on some make-up."

Now it is five minutes to nine.

"Come on, let's go," I say with a note of urgency.

We leave the house, shut the shutters, lock the door and then I remember: I left my wallet. So, I open the door.

"What's the matter?" asks my wife.

"I forgot my wallet," I say.

"Ah, and I forgot my glasses."

I run around looking for my wallet, which is not in its "usual" place, and my wife runs around looking for her glasses, which she is sure she left "right here".

Now it is five minutes after nine.

"Here is my damned wallet," I announce finding that article in the fruit bowl. "Who the hell put it there?"

"But, I can't find my glasses," cries my wife.

"Could your glasses by these?" I say pointing at a pair of glasses hanging from the neckline of her blouse.

Now it is ten minutes past nine. We get in the car and rush off. We tear down the avenue toward downtown Biarritz. Luckily there little traffic at that hour but, of course, every traffic light changes to red as we reach it. There is not a single pedestrian or car at the crossroads but the city of Biarritz deems it necessary for traffic lights to have three minute cycles in traffic lights in spite of the fact that it is the dead of winter and no one is about after seven in the evening.

I drop my wife off at the door of the movie theater and shout, "You get the tickets; I will park the car."

I head for the car park that is half a block away and after finding a space is the highest part of the thing, and in the tightest of spaces, I run for the exit and then toward Le Royal.

My wife is waiting for me and I say, "Let's go inside."

"No, wait. We have to buy the tickets."

"What do you mean? That's whey I let you off here, and..."

"I had no money."

"Augh!" I scream and give the ticket booth lady a twenty euro bill. The lady looks at us with a condescending face. She has seen us repeat this scene so many times she has become cynical about it.

"Salle 2," she says shaking her head.

We rush into the number two theater to find just three other people in there but the credits are already on. We go directly to our favorite seats, one of which juts out of the isle so I can spread my legs in comfort.

The film starts and my wife says, "You see, we had plenty of time."

We find so many ways of getting into trouble and being late wherever we are in the world. Firstly, you could find us, when we are on a trip, by the objects we leave behind in hotel rooms, airport lounges, buses, and sundry places. Trying to retrieve these left-behind objects usually makes us late for whatever mode of transportation we are taking, or whatever schedule we are supposed to follow.

Once we were in Scotland, and after a visit to friends, we took a bus to Aberdeen where we were to rent a car and go off to the West Highlands. The bus ride itself was uneventful but when we got off at the airport, where we were to rent the car, my wife asked,

"Where is your hat?"

I had left not only my hat (hundred euro Stetson that was a Christmas gift from my wife) but a bag with all of my painting material--watercolor box, brushes, drawing pencils, watercolor paper block, etc.--on the bus. As that vehicle pulled away, I ran after it shouting and banging on its side. The driver (and I swear I saw him smirk) paid no attention and rapidly pulled away.

"We have to go back to the bus terminal," said my wife, "and ask if the things have been turned in by the bus driver."

We rented the car, and in spite of the weird right hand driving, we got back to the Aberdeen bus terminal.

"I hope we won't loose much time on this," I said, "because we have to be in the chambre d'hote we rented by six o'clock, and we have a long drive ahead of us."

At the bus terminal, the Aberdeen locals who work at the bus terminal lived up to their reputation of hostility and rudeness. It is an ugly enough city, and charmless to the core, but I think it is more so by the bad tempered attitude of its people--at least the ones that we had contact with in this misadventure.

"No, no one has turned in anything like you describe," said the scowling Scotsman. "You will have to wait for the bus to come back here to ask the driver."

"When does it come back?"

"Look at the schedule," said the helpful ruffian whose ratty blue tie and white shirt seemed to have given him the power of discontent and incivility as bad as any bad tempered civil servant.

We looked at the schedule and figured out that the bus would be back at one thirty.

"That´s three hours from now," I protested. But, my wife was adamant. "We will wait for it."

We went and had a bad lunch of cold sausages and mushy mash potatoes, drowned with beer to lessen the greasy taste.

At one fifteen we were there, like parents waiting for a son that was coming home from the war, looking anxiously for the bus to appear. When it finally came, it was empty and the bus driver was not the same one that had driven us to the airport. This driver was a woman and an ugly woman to boot.

"Excuse me," ventured my wife, "we were on this bus this morning and my husband left his drawing kit and a hat on this bus. Did anyone by any chance turn it in?"

"Oooh, if you left anythin'" said the robust maiden, "you'se best forget it. Hardly anyone turns in anythin'" She walked away. We, nevertheless, went into the bus and looked around. Sure enough, nothing was to be found.

Disappointed, and very angry at having lost so much time for nothing, we got in our car and drove out of that cold, unfriendly city, Aberdeen,

Of course, we were late getting to our destination. The room we had rented at the Chambre d'hote was in a tiny village on the edge of a beautiful lock. Fortunately, the lady that ran the place had figured that we were tourist and had kept the room for us.

The people in the West Highlands more than made up for the ruffians of Aberdeen. We went to a pub in the near-by village of Plockton. It was a night to remember because it was local Celtic music night, as played by local musicians. The pub was full of colorful people who were primed with plenty of beer and Scottish whiskey. But, that is another story and I will tell that in another blog.

P.S. My apologies to Milan Kundera for paraphrasing the title of his wonderful novel.

Tomorrow: Hijinks in the Highlands.

No Country For Young Men (or Women)

We in the Americas, especially in Latin America, take for granted that the media, technology, sports (except for broadcasters), and other "signs of the times" are for the young. In Europe, and certainly in France, this is not so.

This is a country where rock concerts are given by people who have to be carried on to the stage and there is more white hair in most movies than there is in the stables of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna. (Here's a picture just in case you can't figure out the reference.)



Most everything is geared to the crowd over sixty and there are more senior discounts available in shops, public venues, and entertainment spots than you can shake a cane at.

Now, I am not complaining. We went to see "The Shop Around The Corner" at a great classics movie theater the other day, and the girl in the ticket booth gave me the senior discount without my having to ask for it. (As opposed to a silly kid in the concession stand of the San Francisco Giants ballpark who asked me for an ID when I ordered a beer. I spilled a lot of beer as I laughed on the way back to my seat!)

Of course, this state of events pleases me greatly but (and as you know from reading my blogs, there is always a "but") this does not bode well for the country. Most young people cannot have a contract that entitles them to benefits, unemployment compensation, medical and dental coverage, and so on until they are twenty eight, or so. A lot of kids fresh out of school end up doing menial jobs because, unless they are graduates of some of the top schools, there is very little out there in the labor market.

Add to this the fact that people here are long-lived (it is not unusual to see an 85 year old man barreling down the road in his car at a speed that matches his age) and that the government is trying to push the retirement age up due to the large deficit that the Social Security system is running, and you get the idea of why I say that this is no country for young men, or women.

This long prolog brings me to my daily rant: who the hell is going to pay for my nursing home when I am too old to take care of myself? If half the young population of France leaves the country to go and try to become millionaires in Silicon Valley, and the other half can´t get a decent paying job that would imply that he or she has to pay taxes, who is going to pull the Social Security System out of debt?

I worried about this the other day as we were having our evening meal of home-grown vegetables salad and apple cider, because that venerable tax dodger and idol of the geriatric masses, Johnny Halliday, came on the screen on the eight o'clock news.

"Look at him," I said. "He looks like a wax image of himself that has been left out in the sun too long."

My wife laughed but then took offense when Leo Ferré came on the screen and I said that he had to "talk" all of his songs because he was too old to carry a tune. (But that seems to be the style, talking the songs, that is, of most French singers, anyway).

"What do you mean?" she said in a punitive tone.

I went into my rant about who is going to pay for my nursing home, but she would have none of it. I then launched into a technical and exhaustive explanation of the effects of the old folks hogging the job market and the deficit of the SS system, but this did not divert her from assuming attack mode either.

I then commented on how the media in the Americas was dominated by the young whipper snappers and leggy, feather-headed floozies, as were most other industries, and she launched her first volley of artillery fire.

"Well, that is simply not true. What about stars like Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas? They made movies into their old age."

"Yes, and what did they play? They played decrepit old fogies."

"It doesn't matter what they played. The fact is that they were making movies."

She had a point so I tried to divert her reasoning by continuing with my rant.

"We are getting off on a tangent here. My point is that in France the old guys dominate the media, the arts, the economy, and culture. They leave very little room for young people, and we are going to pay for that."

"And, what would you have older people do? Stop producing just because they are old?"

"I would at least have them stop producing such dire and mournful material. My God look at this guy Ferré's songs: Melancholy, Upon My Burial, Song for Death...what next? When my body starts rotting would be a good theme for one of his songs."

"Look who is getting of the theme now," she said.

"You are right. Back to my rant. I am going to write a blog about it and I will give it a title to that effect: "No Country For Young Men".

"And what about the young women?"

"I guess I can include them as well."

We were silent for a moment and then I said that I would continue to play the Lotto because it was probably my only chance to have decent care in my old age.

"Hmph!"She said, "Leo Ferré does not need to play the Lotto. He has made enough money from his "morbid" songs."

I had no rejoinder for that.

A Visit To Père Lachaise

("At last alone", reads the plaque by Arman, the great sculptor and artist)

The French in particular, and it seems that European in general, look to the past to assert their identity while we in the Americas look to the future in search of ours. And, it is no wonder that Europeans feel that way since they are surrounded by their history and the trappings of their culture. In Paris, for example, everywhere you go there is a monument, a building of historical significance, a street named for a king, a liberator, a scientist, an artist, a queen, and so on. There is no shortage of historical sites and certainly no lack of personalities after which one can name streets. It is so much so that some Boulevards take on several names in their various sections.

If museums are the keepers of artistic and cultural history, and places such as the National Archive are the guardians of the testaments to political and social events, a reminder, more poignant than any street name or painting hung on a museum wall, of the persons that created the art and put forth the policies are the tombs, graves, and mausoleums in the cemeteries of the city.

And, no cemetery is more celebrated or visited than Père Lachaise.

My wife is a great fan of cemeteries. She says that visiting the grave of a personality gives physical weight to an otherwise ephemeral presence created from mentions in books or images in photographs. She says it also lends the humility of a mortal body to a personality one might consider metaphorically eternal due to his or her achievements.

I usually just nod in agreement to these philosophical flights of hers and utter a "Yup" in order to prove I am paying attention.

We in the Americas don't have this cult of personality afforded to the long departed. I have never been to a major city, say San Francisco, New York, Mexico City, Sao Paulo, or Toronto where my host has said, "Oh, and by the way, you should visit the cemetery where John Doe and similar personalities are buried." Maybe I don't hang around with the right necrophiles or it is that we Americans, North or South, don't consider our cemeteries tourist attractions.

We in Mexico have a "cult of the dead" and there is a long and complicated religious, folkloric, and cultural history of rituals associated with the "Day of the Dead" (Día de los Muertos) but that is a very different thing from the sort of celebrity ogling that is associated with visits to the grave of people such as Jim Morrison or Chopin, to name a two among the hundreds of the famous that are buried in some of the most celebrated cemeteries of Paris.

Of course, there is a mini-industry that has grown up around these venues, namely the map sellers and souvenir shops that profit from the steady stream of tourist that flows in and out of these places.

Unless one of your loved ones or dear friends is buried there and you want to visit his or her tomb, there is no point in going into one of these cemeteries without a map. Hence, as soon as we left the Metro station, we made a bee line for the map salesman who was stationed by the first entrance to Père Lachaise.

My wife took a map and asked, "Combien?" He had heard us speak in English so he answered, "Trois, cinquent." (Three fifty).

"It says two fifty here," I said in French pointing at his price sign.

"I meant in dollars, monsieur," he answered without missing a beat.

My wife and I laughed.

"Where are you from?" he asked me.

"Guess," my wife said to him.

"Anglais," he said,

"No," I said.

"Americaine?"

"No."

"Néerlandaise?" (Dutch)

"No."

"Allemand?" (German)

"No."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Mexicaine," I said.

"Oh, y el sombrero?" he asked in a thundering voice that made people turn.

We were still laughing when we entered the cemetery.

Père Lachaise is a sad place not only because of its natural function but because of the many tombs that are unkempt and have fallen into a terrible state of disrepair. It is also a place of marked differences: next to a tomb with decaying iron work and sandstone figures with features that have been nearly obliterated by the passage of time and the weather, there might be a shining mass of polished granite and marble proudly proclaiming the name of its occupant or occupants in gold letters.

But, as advertised, midst the army of unknowns, celebrities, scientist, politicians, artists, and other notables are encrusted like nuggets midst the soil of a riverbed. We ran around, map in hand, going from section to section, searching out the tomb of our favorite celebrities, as if we were children on a scavenger hunt.

A small crowd usually milled around the tombs of the most celebrated and there was also the girl in short shorts who posed fetchingly next to the gravestone of someone or other. I sometimes wished the dead would rise from their graves and poke these idiots in the you-know-what with a femur.

Père Lachaise was built on a hill so going to the farthest sections is a steep climb. As we were trudging up the main avenue toward Section 85, in search of the tomb of our favorite author, Marcel Proust, we heard the ringing of a bell.

"Oh, oh," I said. "That probably means the place is about to close and they want us to go down toward the entrance."

"It can't be," said my ever incredulous wife, "it is only five o'clock!"

As we got to the top of the hill, we saw the guard; he was ringing his bell and urging the crowd to go toward the exits.

"I will have a talk with him," said my wife. "Why we just got here an hour ago."

I knew this routing well, so I just waited a few steps down for the inevitable to happen. She talked and argued, and the guard shook his head and rang the bell.

Finally, she came down. "It is just like these minor French functionaries," she huffed. "Give them a little authority and they become inflexible, intolerably authoritative."

I was about to say, "And it is just like a French tourist to want the rules bent to her purpose," but I thought better of it and just agreed with her indignation about the little guard with his bell being the least understanding fellow in the city.

Off we went to have a restorative in a near-by café. We settled on one on the Boulevard Ménilmontant; across the boulevard that was an imposing building with a very large chimney.

"I wonder what that could be?" asked my wife.

"Could be another crematorium, " I said facetiously.

"Oh, don't be silly. Let's ask the waiter."

"It is the Lycée Voltaire," she was informed.

"But, it has such a large chimney," she wondered. The waiter just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps, they give cremating classes," I suggested. "Or they have a ceramic class with a lot of students."

"Oh, really!" She protested. "Just for that, we are coming back tomorrow to the cemetery."

I groaned. I should have quit while I was ahead.

We went back today and here is proof:

Sundays in Paris

If you take the songs "Sunday in New York" and "April in Paris", put them in a blender and listen to the result, you will get the calm, bitter-sweet feeling of a Sunday in Paris. Yes, center ville is swarming with tourists and the museums as busy as ever, but the neighborhoods are quiet and at rest.

Although there is a growing push to have things open on Sunday, and the larger stores such as Leclerc are now opened half a day, most everything else is closed. Less buses run on this day and there are less cars, except for the popular places where Parisians take their kids to play: the Jardin de Acclimatacion, the pond at the Tuileries, many of the spots in the Bois de Boulogne, the Luxembourg park, and the Jardin des Plants.

But, if you drive, or better yet, walk through residential areas such as the Sixteenth Arrondissement or Neuilly where the wealthy live, and even working class or middle class neighborhoods such as Puteaux or our own Suresnes, the tree-lined streets and otherwise busy boulevards are as quiet as, well, a church.

Sundays are days when we are better off taking the Metro rather than a bus if we want to go into Paris--unless you like sitting at a bus stop for 30 or 40 minutes watching other people go by in their cars.

Yet, there are those of us who think that doing just that, sitting at a bus stop, is more fun than the proverbial barrel of monkeys.

On a certain Sunday, we decided to go to the Sevres Ceramics Museum. Now, you must not misunderstand me: I like looking at the stuff that decorated the houses of the rich and famous a couple of centuries ago; and I think I admire the fine workmanship of the china on which royalty ate 10 course dinners, but I don't consider it as exciting as say, the Rubens Room at the Louvre or suddenly coming upon an astonishing Van Gogh in the d'Orsay Museum.

Yet, I dutifully agreed to go; after all, the trip would be easy: we just had to go up to the Tram station and take the T2 which in a few minutes would put us at a stop just across the road from the Sevres Museum. Trams are a wonderful mode of transportation. They are relatively quiet, clean, and their large windows afford an unobstructed view of the places you pass, although some of those places are not that scenic. They are becoming the transportation of choice in many French cities where, coupled with car parks, one can avoid the hassle of having to drive into the center of a city, and the exasperation of looking for a parking space.

Paris has been building its Tram lines for several years and the idea is to girdle the city with them so that if you want to travel, say from the west to the south (for example, from Suresnes to Orly Airport) you can do this with a combination of Tram and RER train without having to go into the city itself.

"So, shall we take the Tram to Sevres?" I asked hopefully.

"Is there no bus that goes there?" asked my wife.

"Yes, but it is a Sunday. They run few and far between."

"I hate going up that steep hill to the Tram station."

"Its not that bad and it is far better than spending nearly an hour waiting for a bus."

She relented grudgingly and off we went up the hill the the T2 Belvedere terminal.

The Tram came and whisked us off to our destination in quiet, air-conditioned comfort. We got off, crossed the avenue and soon we were strolling in the halls of the museum looking at ceramic satyrs chasing ceramic nymphs with very real lust in their ceramic faces. There were hundreds of examples of beautiful china and even vases that had music and parts that moved like a carousel.

"Well, that was very interesting," I said in smug satisfaction. "Now all we have to do is cross the road and take the Tram back home."

My wife said nothing but her silence was eloquent.

When we got to the Tram station we found it crowded with people that were leaving the Saint Cloud park, which is also near-by. There were kids with bikes and mothers with strollers, men in suits that were getting off work at the various museums and venues, and giggly girls in too short shorts; in fact, it was so crowded there was barely room for us to stand in.

But, there was something wrong. The doors did not close. The Tram did not move. After nearly a half hour of this, midst the loud conversations, the screaming and crying of children who were hot and hungry, and the desperate whistling of some men, came the announcement: because of problems in the line, the Tram would not leave the station for another two hours.

Suddenly, there was a mad scramble. People vacated the Tram like roaches fleeing a bread basket on fire.

"What the hell..." I managed to say as we were swept off the Tram by a tsunami of sweaty bodies and rushing strollers. People stopped taxis, others ran to the Saint Cloud bus station, yet others braved the busy Rue de Saint Cloud to get to the bus stop on the other side.

We did the same. And, after an hour we were rewarded with a number 144 bus that, although filled to capacity with the fleeing ex-Tram travelers, delivered us just a couple of blocks away from home.

"Thank God for buses," said my wife.

"Yes," I responded meekly.

A Walkabout To Reacquaint Ourselves With Paris

I am well acquainted with Paris, having been here several times and having stayed for two or three weeks every time I have been here. I am very familiar with the Metro and the bus lines that take us into the city from Suresnes, the suburb where we usually stay.

A couple of winters ago, we stayed in the Fifth Arrondissement, otherwise known as "the Latin Quarter" because of the many schools and universities found there. And, on another occasion, we stayed in the Eleventh Arrondissement, in a neighborhood that was less than prime but the apartment was cheap and very close to Metro and bus stops.

Like all large cities, you get to know the general outlay, and perhaps a lot of its particular places, but you never get to know it all. And, most importantly, like a lot of large cities, its keeps changing, improving, refurbishing, tearing down and constructing, in a fidgety, convulsive attempt to keep up with the demands of an ever growing number of inhabitants, and in the case of Paris, of visitors and tourists.

I've never been to Paris when one of its Metro stations is not being refurbished, or one of its main buildings does not have scaffolding surrounding it, or some principal street or boulevard is not closed for repairs. But then, we mostly come here in summer when a lot of these things get done because Parisian winters can be cruelly cold and wet with rain and snow.

So, the day after our arrival, I usually take the Line 1 metro into the city, or the combination of bus lines 144 and 72 if my wife is coming along (she hates the Metro and prefers the more scenic pleasures of the slow buses). The idea is to go to a center location, say the Hotel de Ville, and walkabout to get a feeling of the crowds and note any obvious changes and major works going on.

This time, got off the bus at the stop that is across the street from the Hotel de Ville and noticed that the square in front of that building had been turned into beach volleyball courts, complete with sand and players sporting beachwear.

For several years now, the city of Paris has turned the riverside walks of the Seine and several other venues into mock beach resorts. They bring in tons of sand, put out beach chairs and umbrellas, blast music out of loudspeakers, and hire dozens of lifeguards (in case anyone falls into the Seine), and instructors that encourage people to take dancing lessons or to play games, and generally try to supply a vacation spot atmosphere for the underprivileged or overworked who could not get away and join the hordes in the yearly August migration to authentic vacation spots.

We noticed that the crowds had congregated at the usual spots: Notre Dame, the Opera, the tunnel entrance where people leave flowers in memory of Princess Diana, the Louvre, etc. But, although plentiful, the multitudes did not seem as thick and restless as in other years. Perhaps it was the financial crisis or perhaps it was the fact that more Parisians had managed to get away but we agreed (for once!) that there seemed to be less people about.

So, after about an hour of walking about, I asked, "Well, what do you want to do now?"

"Oh, whatever you want," she said listlessly.

"OK, then, come along," I said. We walked by the sadly empty but still beautiful building of Le Semaritaine, a landmark department store that will be re-purposed as a hotel and apartment building; we crossed the Pont Neuf (ironically named since it is one of the oldest bridges in Paris), we passed the legendary police headquarters at 36 Quai des Orfevres (which has been now vacated and will be turned into yet another museum); and on to one of my favorite spots: the Place Dauphine.

The Place Dauphine is an oasis of peace and quiet midst that hustle and bustle of the city. Few tourists come here and those that do are usually on their way to or from the busy and popular Boulevard Saint Michel. When the Palais de Justice is active (that is, when it is not summer), the cafés and restaurants that line one side of the square are visited by judges and lawyers, or the clients and victims of these. On the other side of the square there are apartment buildings and a quaint, little hotel that is a throwback to the days when such an establishment was reached by going up a narrow stairs, and the owner, sitting in his office, just handed you a brass key and did not ask any questions.

The square is populated by beautiful trees that were fully dressed in green leaves and still had some remnants of the flowers that had covered them in the spring.

The air was a bit chilly in the late afternoon, so we took a table at the terrace of the "Rose de France", a charming (although a bit pricy) restaurant with excellent cuisine and even better service. We ordered two grand creme, my favorite, frothy type of coffee, and sat back to enjoy the afternoon.

The waiter was a friendly, chatty fellow, quite different from the usual snotty, harried waiters of other Parisian center-city restaurants. My wife wondered about the plain, sandy surface of the square and the waiter told us it was so because the local "petanque" clubs used it for their games. That game, if you are not familiar with the name, involves throwing heavy, metal balls as close to a target as possible while attempting to knock the opposite team's balls out of play. It is a quiet, peaceful game played mostly by older folks.

After our coffee and moment of rest, I asked, "What do you want to do now?" It is never safe to ask that of my wife but I am ever hopeful that she will say, "Oh, nothing. You decide."

She thought for a moment and then said, "I know! I have always wanted to go back to the Sainte-Chapelle! I haven't been there in ages!"

"Look, it is late. It is bound to be clogged with tourists. Perhaps if we came early tomorrow we..."

"Mais non!" she exclaimed. "I am sure most people have come in the morning and it will be quiet by now."

Off we went. We were, in fact, quite close to the chapel. As we approached, I spied a long like of people and a metal detector near one of the entrances.

"Look, there is along queue," I pointed out. "We'd better come back another..."

"Mais non," she insisted. "That must be for another thing. It says in my guide book that the entrance to the chapel is through the Palace of Justice."

"Your guidebook is twenty-five years old!"

"Yes, but somethings never change," she said and headed for the guard post at the entrance to the Palais de Justice itself. The chapel was built by Louis IX, a vary pious king, in order to house the holy relics he had bought (Christ's crown of thorns and other holy things). The royal palace it was part of had disappeared and it is now surrounded by the Justice Palace. It is, nevertheless, a stunning example of stained-glass art and Gothic architecture.

While my wife argued with the guard, obviously trying to get into the chapel by the Justice Palace entrance, I walked to the queue and took my place at the end of it. I could see her vehemently arguing with the guard and showing him the ancient guidebook. The man just calmly shook his head and pointed to the queue. She gave the guard one more tongue lashing and then came back to me.

"It is unheard of," she huffed. "The man insists we have to queue while in the guidebook it says that the entrance is through the Palais de Justice!"

"Dear, it WAS the entrance twenty-five years ago. Now it is not. Things change."

"Well, I don't see why they should."

"Why do you keep that old book anyway. It just keeps confounding you."

"Because I like it. It is much better than the new ones which talk about things I have never been to."

I was totally aghast at that piece of information so I shut up and looked at the queue behind us. "Jeez," I exclaimed, "look at the amount of people that have queued up behind us."

"You see," she said triumphantly, "I told you it was a very popular place."

"No, no; forget popular," I said, "this is a bad omen. Something is going on."

Before she could refute me, a man came walking down the line saying, "If you don't have tickets, you will not be able to come in. Only people with previously purchased tickets will now be allowed into the chapel."

"Augh! This is outrageous," she protested.

I took her by the arm and pulled her out of the line before she could attack the man shouting out the bad news. "Don't shoot the messenger," I said. "The man is only doing his job."

It was late and it had started to rain so she conceded we should take the Metro back home.

"What is this world coming to if one can't just walk into a place like the Saint-Chapelle?" she asked despondently.

"One should be careful what one wishes for because it might come true," I said. "Parisians wanted to make a lot of money from the tourist trade. Their wish has come true but now they can't visit their own museums and other great places."

"I guess," she admitted.

"We should get you a new guidebook," I said trying to console her.

"I guess," she concurred.

Tomorrow: A Grand Project gone Bad

On To Paris!

The bouchons (literally "corks" but meaning traffic jams) were, fortunately, on the other side of the highway as we approached Paris. They were the product of the laggards, late risers, the totally clueless, the eternal optimist, or people who did not have the wherewithal in their jobs to get away at an earlier date. They would sit in their cars for hours just to get to the toll station and on to the autoroute where they would again encounter other bouchons on their way to a crowded, over-priced vacation spots.

Last Wednesday, there were two amusing and relevant cartoons in "Le Canard Enchaîné": one is titled "Vacances, Les Nouveaux Arrivants" (Vacations, the new arrivals) in it a bronzed fat man and his fat bronzed wife are leaving a beach and the new arrivals, a fat pale man and his fat pale wife, greet them and thank them for the vacant spot they are leaving behind; the second one is a depiction of a highway clogged with vacationers and the caption says that the subject of conversation this summer of 2011 is the history of sex scandals among the ruling class and politicians. The cartoon vacationers in the traffic jam haven't a word to say about the congested highways, they are as used to those as the sex scandals they are commenting. As usual, the fabulous political-satirical newspaper summed up the situation in France as we approached its capital city.

Although the lanes into the city were not as crowded as the ones one uses to leave it, it was by no means an easy drive. Parisians, even more so that regular French drivers, are speed crazy. (The night we arrived we saw on the news a French police woman yelling at her colleagues to go after a car that had just sped by at 188 kilometers per hour!) We hugged the "slow" lane (where cars go at only 120-130 kph) and listened dutifully to our GPS as it guided us through the "peripherique" and on to the maze of roads that surround the city.

Soon we were in a quieter section: the one between the Parc St. Cloud and the Seine. Suresnes, the suburb where we were to stay for the next three weeks, is to the west of the city, across the river and opposite the Bois de Boulogne. This is where Louis Bleriot, famous for being the first to cross the English Channel in an airplane, had his digs.

Our little GSP led us straight to our destination without a problem, but, as luck would have it, fate stepped in disguised as my wife.

"Ahhhh," she gasped. "We don't have a key to the apartment. We were to pick it up at the real estate agency."

"And, where is that?"

"It is in center ville Suresnes."

"No problem," I said, still feeling calm and collected. "We will park the car in front of our apartment building and then we will walk to the real estate agency. Downtown Suresnes is not far from here."

"No, no, no, no," she cried. "It is nearly five o'clock and they close I think at five."

"OK, so call them and say we will be a few minutes late. I am sure that they..."

"No, I don't have the phone number. Turn here!" She yelled in such a frantic way that I turned to the left without thinking, much to the disgust of the cars behind me and also those that had to screech to a stop in the opposite lane.

"Drop me off here," she said jumping out of the car. "I will go to the agency on foot and I will meet you in front of the apartment building."

She ran off before I could protest and the GPS, in it most urgent feminine voice kept urging, "Maintenant, fair un demi-tour!" It wanted me to return to the path it had calculated for me. Of course, I could not. I was in a one way street and there were cars behind me honking their horns.

I went off into a knotted mass of streets. The GPS was going mad, asking me to turn left and then quickly right, and sometime begging me to make a turnabout and go the opposite way I was going. I turned it off and decided to try to figure out how to get to our apartment building on my own.

An hour later I was still hopelessly lost in the maze of streets of downtown Suresnes. Salvation came in the form of a pizza delivery guy. "Where is rue de Raitrait?" I asked in desperation. He motioned for me to follow him.

Five minutes later we were there and incredibly enough there was a parking space near by. I thanked the pizza delivery guy and tried to tip him but he just waved and buzzed away.

I looked at the clock on the car's console. It was fifteen minutes past six. Surely my wife would be back soon. Or not! She can get lost in the middle of our living room! Panic seized me! Why did I let her out of the car? She can't find her way to our garden at home without a map! What was I thinking? "Surely," I though, "she is wandering around in downtown Suresnes trying to find the agency. What shall I do? Should I go and try to find her?"

I was about to go search for her when a black, shiny car pulled up in front of me. From the driver's side a smartly dressed young man got out and from the passenger side, my wife popped out!

"Ah, there you are," she said as if I was the one who was lost. "Well, let me tell you that I had an adventure. This young man rescued me."

The young man came and introduced himself.

"Did you know that there are THREE real estate agencies in Suresnes? Well, there are. I went to the wrong one!"

Of course, I thought. It would have been a miracle if she had gone to the right one.

"But, this young man took me to the right one. He works in the wrong one; and as it happens, he knows the fellow who was supposed to give us the key, but you see, he was not there."

"Who?" I asked befuddled.

"The man who was supposed to give us the key! Augh, are you not listening? Anyway, he was not there, this man, so we had to rummage in his desk for the key."

"And you found it."

"Of course not," said my wife opening the front door with the key. "But this young man had the telephone of the man who was supposed..."

At that point I gave up trying to follow the story. I knew that it would take a dozen more twists and turns before we would get to the point where she had found the key.

The young man who had helped her find it had brought her to the apartment to make sure it was the right key. He said good-by and smiled knowingly at me as if saying "Good luck!"

We went into the apartment I and plopped down on a sofa, worn out but not from the six hours of driving I had done that day.

Tomorrow: A walkabout to reacquaint ourselves with Paris.

A Stopover in Périgueux

"Why don't we stop in Monflanquin?" suggested my wife.

"OK," I agreed, noticing that the hilltop town looked charming from a distance.

But, the first ominous sign that this was not a good choice presented itself as we approached the town: the main entrance was framed by a fake arch flanked by two fake castle towers. They were so cheesy they looked like something made by the boys in the woodworking shop for the high school's play. There were further signs of this being an imitation Carcassonne (That beautiful walled city has been turned into a tourist trap and cheap souvenir mill.): dozens of tourists dressed in shorts, baseball caps, and cameras were wandering about and the streets near the entrance were lined with parked cars.

Nevertheless, we dutifully found a parking spot and clambered out of the car to "stretch our legs".

"Well, it if is not suitable, we will just have a coffee and go on," said my wife, wisely leaving the door open for a quick escape if we found the place unbearable.

Montflanquin was a "bastide", a fortified town built by the French in the 13th Century as a bulwark against the English who ruled most of France in those days. It sits on a hill top and dominates most of the surrounding valleys. Another castle that was part of the chain of defense, Chateau Biron, can be seen in the distance.

Many of the houses date from medieval times and look it but the town has been greatly refurbished, and there is a sort of Hollywood scenery look about it: heraldry flags hang from windows and there is even a costume shop where you can rent and buy medieval fashions to wear when the town celebrates its Medieval Days. Although there were signs and posters inviting people to those "festivities", to me they were an warning to stay as far away as possible. I don't cotton to milling around in a crowd of people dressed up in silly costumes so they can pretend to be fair knights and damsels of the court.

As I said, the town is built on a hilltop so all of the streets rise to the central square at a steep angle. We trooped up one of the narrow rues and we noticed that several of the houses had a "A Vendre" (For Sale) sign in the window or the door. Once we reached the main square, again several of the shops under the arcades that bordered all four sides of that space, were also for sale.

We sat at a table in the terrace of a café and ordered a couple of "grand créme", the frothy, delicious coffee and cream that only the French know how to make well and which beat the hell out of anything you can buy at Starbucks.

When the waiter brought our coffees, we asked him about the for-sale signs and he confirmed what we suspected: the town was getting very busy and noisy for the real residents and they were selling out at high prices to commercial ventures so they could buy a house in a more restful place.

"So, it gets pretty hectic around here, eh?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" he confirmed. "And, tonight we have a "marché de nuit" (a night market). It will be very lively with many stands and fireworks at eleven at night."

That was the proverbial nail on the metaphorical coffin. We finished out coffee and skedaddled. But, as we went around the town in the peripheral street that led to the exit, we got a glimpse of the view from the top: it was as grand as advertised. It was obvious that the builders had chosen well: not only was it a formidable defensive position, it was also a beautiful one.

"Well, where to now?" I asked derisively as we drove out of town.

My wife looked at the approaching signage. "Ah, we are close to Périgueux," she exclaimed.

"We are close to a lot of places, my dear. What's so great about Périgueux?"

"I was here for a course one day."

"What kind of a course?"

"Ah, well, it was most interesting. It was for English teachers and we were updated on many subjects and methods for teaching English in our schools."

"You mean, it was a refresher course."

"Yes, yes, that's it."

"And how long did it last, this course?"

"One day."

"One day! Jeeze, what can you do in one day? I would have thought you were here for a week. All that expense and traveling for just one day? No wonder the French school system is going broke."

"Well, we couldn't very well stay away from school for a whole week. The inspector who arranged the course could only stay away from his job for a day, too. Anyway, I stayed in a very nice hotel, the Hotel de France. One eats very well here, too, you know. Périgueux is famous for that."

"Which is why that inspector probably chose it for the so-called course."

We came to a round about where we could continue on our way or turn left and take the road that led to Périgueux. I wanted to go on, my wife wanted to go to Périgueux. We turned left.

Once in the center of the town, we found a convenient paid parking lot. My wife insisted on looking for that "charming" Hotel de France where she had stayed some 20 years back.

"I am sure it was around here some place," she said looking around.

"Things change in twenty years, dear," I said.

"Nevertheless, I am going into that bar to ask," she said resolutely.

"And, I am going to the tourism office to ask where there are hotels available because I am sure that by now everything is pretty well booked up. It is seven o'clock, you know."

"If it is seven, the tourism office will be closed," she said.

"Yes, but they always leave posting in the windows."

She headed for the bar; I headed for the tourism office. As luck would have it, as I reached it and started to look at the postings in the window, the lady who runs the place came out and proceeded to lock the door. I asked her about hotel rooms available in the area and she told me that only the B&B Hotel, the chain of bed and breakfast hotels in France, had informed her that they still had some rooms available in the facilities that were in a near-by town.

I met my wife as she was coming out of the bar. "It is incredible," she said. "The owner of the bar told me that the Hotel de France has disappeared."

"You mean it vanished into thin air?" I asked facetiously.

"No, no, it had been torn down!"

"Why am I not surprised?" I said.

"The man at the bar suggested The Bristol, which is near-by."

"He probably owns stock in the thing," I said. "I saw the prices in the tourism office window. It is three times what we usually pay for a night's stay. Anyway, the lady from the tourism office was just leaving as I looked in the window and she told me the only thing available was at the B&B Hotel in Boulazac, the town we passed on the way here."

"But, that's kilometers away!" my wife protested.

"Eighteen to be exact, but that is our only choice. Everything here in town seems to be booked up. The French are on the move, you know."

Reluctantly, she agreed and we sped off for the B&B. We got a room there. These hotels are the usual modern facility type: everything is computerized, no keys just number codes, rooms are spartan but with the necessary things, WiFi is "free", and even the shampoo in the bathroom is not in individual packages but in a dispenser like the ones you see in a restaurant or bar toilette.

We went to dinner at a Buffalo Grill that was cross the road from the hotel. We had a grand dinner of chile-con-carne, chicken wings, spare ribs, and beer! For desert I had a large ice cream cone.

"Well, one does eat well in Périgueux," I said to my wife triumphantly.

"I guess so," she grumbled.

Tomorrow, "On to Paris!"

The French Are On The Move!

In spite of the title that sounds (reads) like something out of a 1950s newsreel, it accurately describes what is happening on the roads of France this month of August.

Here is a piece of advise:

If you come to France, don't come in August! Like lemmings that jump over a hill, or army ants that relentlessly go through a forest eating anything and everything in their path, or herds of wildebeest that inexorably swim through crocodile infested waters in their yearly migration, the French jump in their cars, hook up their caravans (that's what they call mobile home trailers here), lock the kids in the back seat, put a rack of bicycles on the back of the caravan, and rush toward the nearest "autoroute" to form part of a kilometers long traffic jam as they head for their dream vacation spot, usually a muddy lake in the middle of a sea of similar caravans, or a beach side "resort" where an ice cream cone costs a day's pay.

A note on the so-called caravans: This weapon-of-choice of the French comes in all shapes and sizes, from a miniature contraption that has to be assembled into a pup tent and where all ten members of the family sleep like rabbits in a warren, to a huge, luxury apartment on wheels, with an array of antennae on top worthy of a CIA snooper's post. Whatever the size and shape, this rolling accident-waiting-to-happen is pulled along at fantastic speeds that prove Einstein's Theory of Relativity (since the people on board those things seem to be oblivious to how fast they are going). They swerve in and out of traffic as if they were on motorcycles, frightening the hell out of anyone in their way, (mainly us), and fish-tailing over all the lanes as if they were intent of sweeping the road of laggards and slow-riders like we are.

We, unfortunately have no choice but to join the yearkt migration, since we rent out our house to a family that, like the hordes of Parisians that invade Biarritz every summer, come regularly every vacation period to our sea side town. Therefore, we, in turn, invade Paris in August. But, since we are in no hurry to get to that tourist-choked city (choked mostly by Americans, the British, and other foreigners), we usually take the "national" roads ,rather than the autoroutes (super highways), because the former are more scenic and user-friendly.

We always decide on two or three stops along the way because we (by "we" I mean my wife) have decided we are going to know every part of France before we leave this life. Hence, our yearly planning session to discuss and comment on the possibilities (both cultural and economic) of sojourning in different towns and villages. The sessions usually go like this:

My wife: "Darling, where should we go this year?"

Me: "Oh, how about Toulouse, I haven't been to..."

My wife: "Oh, not Toulouse, it is so crowded and beside I studied there and I already know it so well..."

Me: "You studied there 40 years ago, dear, so it might have changed and..."

My wife: "How about Brieve-la-Gaillarde?"

Me: "Yes, that is a good choice. I've read that it is..."

My wife: "No, no, that's too far. It is already half way to Paris. We need something closer first. I suggest Marciac."

Me: "For the Jazz Festival? I would love that!"

My wife: "But, we will not stay there. We will stay in Vic-en-Bigorre."

Me: "Ah, that's a nice little town. Quiet, friendly, and cheaper than staying in Marciac."

My wife: "Right! So, it is decided. Thank you, darling. Your idea was wonderful."

Me: "Well, I, uh..."

My wife: "Tomorrow we will decide on where to stay on our way to Paris."

Marciac was a wonderful idea. The jazz was great, with groups playing in open venues under tents that kept the broiling sun at bay but did not discourage the drinking of cold beer. At night, we would go to the "formal" payed sessions, with two groups, one playing from 9 PM until 11 PM and the other from 12 PM until 2 AM.

Between the outdoor, free sessions and the nightly ones, we wandered around looking at the many trinkets for sale in the stands that crowded the arcades of the main square and the side streets of the town. There were also LOTS of places to eat and bars where to drink the local wine--hearty, full bodied reds and fruity roses from the near-by Madiran region.

So, after a couple of days of Jazz, off we went on to Paris.

Of course, we had not had another "planning session", what with the music, the drinking, the eating, and the sleeping until midday after the long nights of music and revelry. But, being the every optimist, we said that we would stop somewhere before or after Limoges, one of the larger cities that is on National Route 21, a road that winds through the beautiful valleys that form the center part of France and that form a sort of backbone between southern France and northern France.

It is indeed a wonderful car trip. Many fields are covered with sunflower crops and they shine bright yellow in the summer sun. There are corn fields and wheat fields, and even those fields that are left fallow are nicely trimmed and green with new grass. Many sections of the road are lined with trees and every few kilometers you come upon a charming village or town. Some are even done up for their local summer festivals, such as Monflanquin, with its towering castle built in the 13th Century and side-streets preserved pretty much as they were then.

French highways have excellent rest areas (some not only have toilettes but free showers as well), so we stopped at one with picnic tables under beautiful trees and we had a picnic lunch there with stuff we had taken in a cooler from our fridge back home. Of course, after hours of driving, the wine and the food took their toll and we drove to a near-by village to have a snooze.

We parked the car under a tree in a park located in front of the village church. (My wife has suggested, and she was right, that there is always a park in front of the church in French villages.) We were both promptly asleep on the soft grass in the quiet and cool shade of the mimosas.

But, as luck would have it, the village fool was about! I heard a loud yell, "Eaiyyy, gars!"

Startled, I opened my eyes to see a man dressed in an undershirt and pants, with a huge beer-belly, a walking stick and a beret, yelling at us from the far side of the park. Thinking that there might be some sort of local law against sleeping in the park, I got up on my elbows and asked the approaching man if he was talking to us. (I translate the conversation from the French.)

The man: "Yes, I am talking to you. Is that your car?"

Me: "Yes, its our car."

The man: "Well, get up and go on. You are wasting time lying around here."

Me. "What do you mean?"

The man: (Who was not standing next to our prone bodies.) "Are you Parisians?"

Me: "No, we are from Biarritz."

A long conversation ensued in which the man told me he had a brother (who lives in Biarritz) that had told him that prices of land in Biarritz were three times what they are in his village. I have no idea why he said this unless perhaps he was a land salesman in disguise as the town fool.

Our rescue from the bizarre conversation came in the form of a car that stopped in front of the church. Two people got out so the man yelled at them:

The man: "Hey, did you bring any flowers?"

The startled couple: "What?"

The man: "If you are going in to pray, you should at least bring flowers."

The couple did not move as if paralyzed by the man's admonition and off the man went to harass the churchgoers.

We rested a bit more but our sleep had been interrupted so we decided to take the fool's advice and to go on our way.

Tomorrow: A Stopover in Périgueux