Home...almost

We are in Portland's airport waiting for our final leg home to Eugene. This adventure is about to come to an end. We have been up since 3am Nice time which is about 5 months Eugene time! Sarah has dozed off next to me. Bit of a culture shock being back: all one language (and I can understand it),  have to order a specific beer rather than simply saying "un bier", we know where bathrooms are and how they work, money is familuar if not pretty (I really like using the equivelent of 1 and 2 dollar coins), Burger King smells good, and cell phones work (after I spent 30min. with the Sprint folks getting Sarah's phone "reset"). We ended up getting a room at Primier Classic Hotel which is basically travelers hotel with modular rooms and a moulded plastic bathroom after piling all our stuff on a city bus. Made arrangements with desk person to make sure taxi will take us to the airport at 3:30am. The desk clerk we made this arrangement with turns out to be they guy who takes us to the airport. Pretty much uneventful long flight. They now have individual video in the seat backs so it was marathon movies. 

Might continue to update this blog for a while with pics and thoughts on the trip. Don't know if I will do anything with it otherwise. Travel logs are one thing. What we had for dinner or what the latest episode of CSI was is another. It's been fun...........

Full moon over Nice

Showered and out to dinner at a nearby restaurant, L'Ovale, recommended by Rick Steves. The name refers to a rugby football but the place is charming if not a bit bright--sports bar gone French cuisine. We had the goose casserole--a delicious pot of goose confeit with white beans. The waitress delightful with her mix of French and English to match mine. Sarah off to bed. I have the option of bed (to early), find a bar (not motivated) or sit in the lobby of the hostel chatting with all you folks and maybe a traveler or two. I think I'll entertain y'all with more notes from Avignon...

After-dinner cafe' kicking in. Sarah off to bed in our red velour room at Hotel Marion (?) well protected withing the ramparts of this walled city. Avignon: cobbled streets, dark alleys and neuvoux chic mixed with midievil ambiance. City of popes, artists and a bridge of children's song. I'm sitting under a red awning drinking a sweet Belgin Grimbergen at Lou Mistrall, on of several restaurant/bars/brassiers clustered together under massive maple trees with leaves just starting to fall. A variety of music from different corners. A variety of language everywhere. Nike swoosh on the shoe store across the street. Gleeming white columns of the city offices next door. The night is balmy yet a little cool while half a moon hangs bright over the Rhone. Even tho we arrived late we got in two big ones: the bridge of Avignon and the Popes' Palace. The song written originally as a "pillow song" for newlyweds changed over the years to the children's song many of us remember. It's doubtful anyone danced on the bridge as it was quite narrow but they did dance and picnic under it on the many islands it span in the 18th century. Today, Avignon's most notable feature, the reaming 4 arches and chapel draws tourists the world over. 

In the 1300's the pope decided he needed better protection than what Rome could provide, packed up a few robes, a bunch of gold and Jesus and moved to Avignon. This house the pope build is more massive and defendable than any other castle or fortress we have yet seen. Papal rooms with hidden vaults in the floor, anterooms of palpal bedrooms with scenes of reserection still painted on the walls, a dining room big enough to seat 200 and a chapel even bigger with this months art exibit of videos of frogs, pigeons, and donkeys loose in this sacred arena and snake charmers on 20 ft screens all reportedly with bible references. A feeling of awe on so may different levels.....

The moon is full and high and it's just a bit too far to walk to observe it's reflection on the sea. We should be home by Thurs. and back to work on the weekend. I enjoy this travel gig. I think I do it well. Could do it for quite some time but it will be good to get back to the comfort of our own home, our friends and find out if we still have a bank.

Shopping and biking in Nice

We head out with an actual itinerary today. We will wander to the stalls of the market in Old Nice then rent bicycles to ride along the boardwalk next to Ouai de Etats-Unis. So, after hostel breakfast of the usual bread, jam, butter, coffee and OJ we hop on the tram a block away and get off at the Opera House. It's now 11:30 and the only market sellers we have made it to are the fish mongers in Place St. Francos and a couple of souvenir shops crowded within the dark alleyways. We now sit at one of the ambiguous cafe/bars-Le Bec Fin, with a very small cup of coffee (always with sugar) and a tea. The aluminum tables and chairs spill over into the street taking up parking space for the few cars and many motorcycles at the curb. The proprietor stand in the doorway with arms folded as he surveys his realm, watching tourists cluelessly meander from the train station across the street or give a courteous "Ca va?" to passing neighbors. Sarah knits and slowly drinks her tea. My little bitty cup of coffee is long gone. Off to the market...

Made it to the huge market along Cours Saleya where it has been since the birth of the city--flowers and olives and spices and cheese and cheesy souvenirs  and more olives. Sarah bought a small amount of olive de provence for later snacking. We saunter across the square in front of Palis de Justice and listen to a grifter play sax accompanied by amplified iPod. He's smooth, he's good, I buy his CD. We decide on pizza for lunch and settle in to a table on the same square at Ceyenne K' fe. Surprisingly there are locals here in addition to the tourists. The waitress asks "English ok?" then double cheek kiss the well dressed folks at the next table. Good pizza. Fried egg sitting yellow and white right in the middle.

Bicycles rented at a little shop facing the sea. Two bikes, one with a basket at Sarah's request, in exchange for an Oregon drivers license and a "merci". Rode slowly along the bike lane of Promenade de Americains. Originally a boardwalk built so the upper crust didn't have to get their feet soiled has they took their evening stroll it is now a concrete top of the seawall curving the length of Nice to the airport. We find the Premier Classis Hotel with first class views of the runways and make a reservation for tomorrow. After a few minutes of watching old men toss steel balls and stand around with bowed heads and a "ces't bons" debating distances we park our bikes and hit the beach. No sand here, except where it has been trucked in for a volleyball area, the beach consists of polished smooth round rock not unlike our familiar river rock. 

We hollow out sitting areas and join the scattering of other sun worshipers in their assortment of lawn-chairs or beach towels and in shorts, jeans or bathing suits (yes, some sans tops). The gentle crystal clear green surf laps against the beach as the rocks roll and click their reply. A few sails interrupt the horizon and the tan terraced hotels and apartments curve off left to the east. Hills rise into the haze above the town blanketed with red tile roofed  buildings; the white domed top of an observatory at 8 o'clock and a lighthouse at 10. We take our shoes and socks off and roll our pant legs up and hobble into the cool water. We stand in the Mediterrian.

Returning the bikes we wander back into the maze of streets and alleys of the old city and take a small round table against the grimy outside wall of Les Distilleries Idiales at the corner of Ru Benoid Bunico and Rue de la Prefecture. A popular, apparently local, hangout despite the surly waiter. Across the street is the back of Notra Dame Chapelle with stonework or antiquity on display. Across from that is a tobacco shop, an Indian import shop, a tattoo and piercing parlor called "The House of Pain" (I assume there is no reference to bread here) and La Provencal d' Alimentation, seller of fine wine cheese and pork. Lots of foot traffic of tourist eating gelletto and looking lost, locals heading home from work or walking their ever present silly little dogs and school children with pink backpacks and soccer balls. Light still shines on the clock tower in the square down the street while the alpenglow on the mustard yellow  side-buildings is punctuated only with the blue, white and red of the French flag. Sarah knits, I write, the man on the corner plays the harmonica but lacks the enthusiasm for handouts and the world goes by.

Sarah is upstairs taking a shower. I'm in the lobby transcribing from my journal. Dinner tonight will be near by. Probably our last "real" meal in France.

Headin' home...

 Got up early, regretfully closed down the cottage and drove to Nice. We have an early flight on Thurs and have been told a taxi from the hostel is quite expensive so we drove around and around the airport area looking for a hotel within walking or shuttle distance. The Raddison wants 180 euros and other's want more! And you still have to get a cab at 4am!! And no one will hold our luggage for us unless we are actually staying at their hotel (some lame excuse about "security") so we piled my rolling duffle, Sarah's rolling suitcase (with the stitched together zipper), a small back pack, my shoulder bag, the green pack we used for hostel travel and the new sport duffle bag we bought to haul all the new acquired  crap back onto a city bus then tying or caribinering it all together humped it the 10 blocks to the hostel. Looks like we'll take our chance with the outlaw cabbies. 

Both of us are pretty exhausted. Feet hurt. At the recommendation of the guy behind the desk here we had dinner at a pretty unremarkable even disappointing cafe near the train station. Guess he is more used to sending folks from here out for cheap and filling. But now for the past half hour we have been happy--we have internet connection. It took a bit of configuring to get the password right but we now have flow of electrons, or waves or magic for all I know and can check email and upload posts. We are sitting in one of the hostel's dining rooms. Yellow walls, orange tables, computers against one wall. Hostelers are going back and forth from the communal kitchen as they prepare mostly pasta. Four guys biking from Spain to Turkey walked thru with a huge pot of something smelling good. I buy cheap beer at the desk and patiently wait while Sarah checks her email and any news from "Knitting Weekly" or "Fiber International" or whatever the hell she keeps up with. An interesting mix of travelers here. The usual college girls traveling in a group or single and the usual old fart hitting on them. Good thing Sarah is here!! The old lecherous guy who would hollow out his bread at breakfast and fill it with jam then dunk it in his coffee is gone. But I think a German guy tried to pick me up at the elevator this afternoon. Otherwise, hosteling is safe for anyone. The staff is friendly and helpful and rooms here cost at least half of what dumps cost in the less attractive parts of town. Of course, you might be sharing a room with 3 other people; the only linen is a clean sleeping sheet, a plastic covered pillow and a fuzzy blanket that is on the bed when you arrive (and when you leave!); a toilet down the hall; and drunk singing Ukrainians at 2am.......

....................Dale got up to get a cheap beer and FINALLY I get a chance at the keyboard.  Besides,  my fingers were getting tired from knitting.  I am almost done with my abbreviated version  of the Lady Eleanor shawl,  (I didn't want to spend the money to buy enough skeins to make the shawl,  so voile, it has become a scarf made out of several skeins from my abundant stash !)  Just in time too, as it is too bulky to lug around airports for the return trip home.   On the needles I have a cabled pair of fingerless mittens, and an angora celtic cabled hat.....Dale returns beer in hand.  I will totter off to the kitchen and see if I can wedge my way in between boiling pasta and Indian spiced stew  to brew a pot of tea. 

Get away from my keyboard, woman.......It's amazing how connected travelers are these days. Our last big trip, people hooked up at cybercafes and hotels but these folks now carry their own. Your's truly included. Some of these computers are so small and cute. I want one! Have had a few of you lurkers make comment about: "your on vacation. What the hell you want to be doing on a computer?" or something to that effect. I enjoy the writing and the sharing. In the past, when I traveled alone, I would sit in cafes or bars and write letters. Sometimes I felt a bit selfish because these letters only went to single individuals. I had to decide who I would bore with details of my trip and I would have to continue to do so otherwise so much would be out of context. Now I can bore many at once! I still write in cafes and bars but I have embraced the technology and use the tools of communication that are available to me. Sitting with paper or a keyboard in front of me provides a break. Travel, especially travel for this length of time, is concentrated, intense, and fatiguing. There must be a balance of sit back and chill with the go, go, go. Writing makes me focus my thoughts, review the day, and escape from the constant intensity of travel. This connection with friends and the time spent writing somehow not only gives me a break but even justifies my experiences by allowing  me to share with others. 

I'm going to bed.............

One day and a wake up...

I sit on the flagstone patio. A glass of last nights red as a nightcap and a Partagas cigar picked up in Geneva. The near full moon casts shadows in the surrounding forest. Dinner in town at one of the restaurants off the main drag. We are the only patrons. The waitress seems bored and more interested in her laptop at the bar but the room is comfortable and charming altho the food is mediocre. For entres Sarah had a mixed salami plate and I had mussels with a baked breading that was quite good. Our main course was grilled beef seasoned with the ever present herb de provence . Tasty but a bit  tough. Desert was white cheese with chestnut cream. Basically creme freche with a bit of ricotta like cheese whipped in. The chestnut cream is a local speciality. I can see the lights of La Garde Frenete across the valley guarding the pass as it has for a millennia. Will miss this little town with it's two patisseries, two small grocery stores, central office de tourism, antique shop, souvenir jam store and narrow streets wandering off in arbitrary directions. We haven't spent enough time in town to become local. Most of our purchases have been punctuated with "bon voyage" by the store keeper. Old men, always men, were playing boules on the gravel boule court at the edge of town this Saturday afternoon and the trailer set up in the parking lot for the tour buses was doing a brisk business selling pizza and snacks. It's clear tonight and cool. I can hear the critters rustling in the leaves and the chatter of one expressing it's ownership of territory along with the occasional bark of a distant dog and the ever present vehicle, now simply background noise, on D558 speeding along to or from the coast. I'm kept company by the stately chestnut tree on the terrace above as Sarah has gone up to the bedroom to prepare for bed. Yes, I could live here but I know that after another month (or a year) my American standards would quickly overwhelm this simple existence and from boredom or lack of space to store my accumulated stuff I would long for the complexity and opulence of my life in Eugene. For a long time, however, I will miss this.

One day and a wake-up remains in La Garde Freinet. Breakfast this morning at the same table on the patio. Now rather than cloaked in darkness with mysterious rustlings I am surrounded by the familiar forest. Birds sing as the dappled sunlight filters thru the trees. The landscape is terraced with stone walls below and above me and the spiny husks of chestnuts litter the ground. Probably enough here for market, they fall with a "thunk" and a roll often spilling the dark brown shiny nut. No time for roasting which is too bad given the abundance, the fireplace and the long handled pan with the perforated bottom designed just for that purpose. Our petit dejeuner is coffee made in the ever-useful stove top Imperia expresso maker, left over baguette from yesterday, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of pate, jam, and lavender honey. We spend some time making a game plan to pack and close up the house then I drive into town to find something to cook for dinner. It's market day and the village is hopping. Stalls selling olives and spices, bread and pastries, cheese and salami, souvenir table clothes, roasted chicken, wine, and vegetables. I get money (yet again) from the ATM, drop off a post card for a friend who can't do blogs, and go shopping. A quarter kilo of the local provencal spice, two baguettes and the last two almond croissants (I've tried for days but they have always been "finis"), a whole roasted chicken (I don't feel like cooking much tonight), a bit of sausage and two jars of the sweet local chestnut puree. I stop in at one of the art galleries and talk to the artist. I buy a small shallow ceramic tray with his popular, yet by is own admission, very simple stick figure art that people seem to buy. Asking if it has a long journey ahead he wraps it in extra bubble wrap and says he would love to come to the US if someone would sponsor a showing. Further down the street as I admire cotton shawls I discuss the market slide with the English proprietor. She explains that she has not taken credit cards for some time and notices that many American tourist seem to be spending beyond their means. She says the French will not get a loan for more than 30% of their income and that debit type cards are used-if there is no money in an account the card will not work! Then she began a conversation about George B. not being so bad since obviously he has managed quite well without going into debt. Avoiding a possible international conflict this line of discussion was interrupted by the appearance of another customer. I spend some time wandering around the towns cemetery. Like many cemeteries in France, it is behind high stout walls (keeping souls in or vandals out?). Rather than individual 12 sq. feet of eternal space, families own crypts that apparently can get quite cozy over time. Exquisite porcelain writhes or flowers and small plaques memorialize those interred. 

Upon my return to the cottage, Sarah is in the throes of cleaning. The little refrigerator is empty and being defrosted and the ashes from our one night of fireplace fire are being swept out. We (she) break for lunch of baguette, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of pate, jam and boar sausage (I decided against buying the donkey sausage). As I read Rick Steves' book on Provence (homework I should have done before this trip), chestnuts continue to fall and the ever present traffic continues to ply the highway below. I like the way Rick writes. He gives specific information with a bit of history and always accented with humor. I wish I had read more of his book before we visited some of these spectacular sites. We pack and repack (since we'll be in Nice for two more days things get a little complicated), clean the little mess that we have made here over the past month and start to put things back like we found them. 

I sit on the patio with a glass of Domaine De La Giscle and another Partagas. As dusk descends muting the colors, the little Madame is washing dishes. Tonight, for our last meal in this idyllic mountain hideaway, I prepared our last homemade Provence dinner. The petite poulet I bought at market today was heated to release the rich juices and accompanied by rice with parsley and fresh green beans sautéed with garlic and leeks and a hard boiled egg and grapes on the side made for a wonderful finale. Cascading headlights flow down the highway and the breeze continues it's conversation with the ancient forest. We are ready for the next and final leg of our adventure. Tomorrow we make the 2 hour journey back to Nice, find a hotel near the airport that will be convenient for our 6am departure on Thurs. return the car, and take a bus into the city for two nights at the hostel and time to pomade along the boardwalk and window shop in the city. As the full moon glimmers through the branches of chestnut tree I think about all we have done and all we have not had time to do: spend time here at the cottage just hanging out, visiting the casinos at Monaco, tracing the steps of Van Gogh in Arlens where he lended an ear to a prostitute and produced some of his most famous works, rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous in St. Tropez (reportedly Bridget Bardot at age 70 signs autographs every Thurs.), sun bathe on one of the many isolated beaches, or drive to the end of our road and hike along the GR7 that follows the ridges all the way to across France. We did a lot tho. You can't do it all. And there will always be Paris. We can not thank enough our friend, Chris and his family, for allowing us this stay at his family home. Not only did this provide us with free lodging but lodging without compare. Despite the medieval towns, the Roman ruins, and the museums the time spent at the cottage is probably our most memorable. Soon we will be back in our real world of work, mortgages, Albertson's and figuring out just where we stand in an economy that has changed along with election frenzy, a significant credit card debt and post vacation (I still want to call it a "lifestyle") depression. And of course, we look forward to the time we again have the opportunity to pursue adventure. 

Romans 1:1

We visited Avignon and Nimes to check out Roman ruins. We had been impressed with the age of 13th and 14th century construction but standing next to or on a structure from Roman times it is difficult to comprehend this time frame in human history. The people from Medieval times considered these structures from antiquity and pilfered their stones for their own construction needs and the folks in the Renaissance participated in renovation. The Arena in Nimes, one of the most important colosseum for gladiatorial spectacles in the 2nd century, is now one of the best preserved in existence and having been fitted with a steel framework and wooden benches is still used today for concerts, festivals and frequent bull fights. About 20k from Nimes in Pont du Gard are the remains of the triple tired arched aqueduct anyone who has ever studied highschool Roman history has seen pictures of. Still spanning the Gardon River it was used to provide water to Nimes from a spring in Uzes about 12 miles away. (the actual length of the aqueduct was about 30 miles with a drop of only 40 feet). After wandering the concrete foot bridge that parallels the aqueduct we settled in for a cold beer at the fancy hotel and restaurant that I must say has one of the most impressive backdrops anywhere. 

Visiting the walled city of Avignon is like stepping back in time (if you can ignore the many storefronts for high end shoes, clothing and objects de art). Intact ramparts circle the old city on the banks of the Rhone and most of the buildings inside are remnants from the time of the Knights and Crusades. While walking the cobblestone streets it is easy to imagine a time when Kings ruled and protection was provided by the stoutness of the surrounding stone walls. Popes lived in the palace, the plague was a threat and people actually used the bridge to get across the river not dance under. Saturated, as easy as it is when visiting Europe, with churches, saints, popes and New Testament art; we requested a visit at the local synagogue. Jews arrived in Avignon in the 1st century with the Diaspora and eventually became known as "the Pope's Jews" because of the protection the Vatican offered. The synagogue, originally from the 1220s and the only one you will find under a rotunda was completely rebuilt in the mid-19th century in a Neoclassical, Greek temple style by an non Jewish architect. The woman who allowed us in did not speak English however a young man waiting to consult with the Rabbi did and was quite helpful in translating and adding bits of local Jewish history. 

Unfortunate that we only had one night in this town, Avignon is a comfortable city and would be a good place to spend some time visiting. 

Driving Miss Sarah....

Drove back from Nimes. Got a bit of a late start since we just had to sit at the cafe next to the Roman Arena for a coffee and to people watch. Then after consulting the map we decided to take a different route home but unable to find the appropriate street out of town. Sarah navigating switching back and forth between Rick Steve's map in his book and a southern France Michelin map. It amazes me how one minute we are in the northeast part of the city and then magically, after identification of only one street, we are in the south west part! Basically follow signs that say, "Toute directions" (all directions) and hope they mean the specific direction we want. Circled the town lost for quite a while till we made it back to the gare (train station) and picked up the scent from there. There's usually pretty good signage for outlying towns but the highway numbers are not so obvious. Of course there may be several ways to get to the next town by following toute directions! We choose not to get on the A8 autoroute. Save money, it can cost 20 euros or more to travel any distance on these things, and we would see a bit of the country side and small towns. All goes well until dark. Then due to a) the headlights of the rental car are very misaligned or b) the operator of this automobile doesn't know how to turn fog lights off and headlights on ( My money is on "b" ) I have an illuminated field of view of about 15 feet in front of us! Brights help but of course since it's dark I can't just wave and grin and play the stupid tourist card as I blind everyone coming my way. I have to slow down to a crawl not to override my lights which of course does not please the guy on my butt. And poor Sarah  wants to schedule me for caterac surgery because she doesn't realize it's the car, not me! Not your most experienced with a map she is having some difficulty matching the strange sounding names of towns with the little print of the map in a dark car and I can't help because I'm too busy trying to stay within the solid white line on the left (and the on coming truck) and the broken line on the right (and the abyss). Every so often I would yell "signs" warning her to read the list of town names, identify them on the map, make a decision if that is indeed the way we want to go and tell me where to turn. All in a time frame of 30 seconds! And that is why the French invented the roundabout. Very few intersections with traffic lights here. Rare need to stop, wait for traffic to make a left turn. As you approach the roundabout you see a sign with what appears to be a large letter "C" with spokes coming out to correspond to designated routes. With a quick yield you enter this thing, merge to the outside lane before your exit and continue on your way. Or not! If you miss your exit or are not sure of the exit you simply keep on going...around....and around. Sarah and I wonder it there is a limit as to the number of times you can circle. If you exit and you discover it isn't the right exit, there is likely another roundabout nearby allowing you to basically u-turn and head back to try again. There are enough of these things that traffic lights are rare and in some towns it takes the diligance of two to pick them out. By the time we get back to the cottage Sarah is having stress related back spasm and I can hardly turn my neck. My hands finally get circulation back from the white knuckle driving.

The cars here are small. They have to be. We have a whole new perspective on the concept of "close". These mountain roads are basically one lane. Meeting someone coming in the opposite direction is much like the game of "chicken". One vehicle or both must hug the outside edge of the road without dropping off into a ditch or worse. I usually stop but these French drives have a better perception of space and usually zip on by. Occasionally one of us actually has to back to a wide spot but we try to look ahead and time our passing at an acceptable place. It is not unusual to stop for a large truck to make a hairpin turn taking up the entire width of the road. Driving thru the many small villages are not any better. The ancient buildings are built right up to the streets edge (you would think they would have anticipated a time when there might be something bigger and faster than a cart) and if there is room for a sidewalk it is likely filled with parked cars while pedestrains have to walk in the street. Even in the big cities the scale is small-just more faster traffic with a certain disregard for lane markers, turn signals, or speed limits. They do however stop for pedistrains in crosswalks. 

Then there are motorcycles....fast and fearless they not only may pass on a blind curve but may do so when there is obviously a car coming in the other direction! Squeezing between cars stopped at lights or while held up in traffic in the city is one thing but squeezing between cars going in opposite directions at 70k/h is impressive. A common gesture, once they pass, is to kick out their right leg-either a motorcyclist's "thank you" or in lew of using turn signals it's "hey, let me in". 

Actually looking forward to huge cars, traffic cops and road rage. 

Dancing on the bridge...

Arrived in Aviglon yesterday, snagged room at one of Lonely Planets "budget" suggestions inside the city wall. Immediately off to see what sights we can in the late afternoon. The history of St. Benezet Bridge is fascinating. The song is probably Aviglons single most effective advertising campaign. Also toured the Place of the Popes where in 1309 Clement V moved here as a safer refuge than dangerous Italy and build one impressive home complete with treasure rooms, ramparts, dining room the size of football fields and a chapel even larger. 

Our room actually has TV with English BBC channel. Our first TV in almost a month. Also has wifi but was too tired last night to spend any time other than checking email. You are all saved from my verbage once again. 

Have been saturated with churches, popes, and saints. Today will try to find a synagogue built in the 13th century after the first Diaspora. Then Roman ruins in the neighborhood. 

Down time...

It's true...Sarah and I are electron whores. We went trolling for internet today. Drove slowly around La Garde Freinet with the computer open in Sarah's lap looking for hotspots. With two bars Sarah yells "stop" but everything seems to be password protected in this little town. We decide to drive to Port Grimaud to sit in La Boheme drinking beer and stealing wifi from the guy upstairs as we have done in the past. Nice bar but it's closed. Sat under their awning under gray skies "borrowing" internet access from somewhere but lost it after a time. A move to a bench next to one of the marinas allows me to post last blogs. 

Rained hard today. Good thing it's a "down" day. Went shopping though. Checked out the local mall near St. Tropez. Didn't need anything really but it's fun to see how the locals shop. Also went to market in La Garde this morning after dropping off some laundry at the local and only gas station: a single pump on a wide spot of the main road at the edge of town, inside selling wine, a few canned groceries, and apparently does laundry. A euro a kilo and it'll be ready a' domain. Today was market day in town so bought stuff for dinner tonight and of course more bread.

Just finished a wonderful meal of huge heads-on crevette (shrimp) sauteded in butter (lots of butter), olive oil, garlic, leek and vermouth accompained by rice and lentils seasoned with garlic, onion and spice du provence. When Sarah finishes dishes we'll have some cantalope and chocolate for desert. I'm, in the meantime, relaxing with another glass of Baron de Fonviel white bordeaux 2005 (3 euro a bottle) and utilizing my "down time" at the computer. 

I hope you folks enjoy my little travel logs. I do enjoy writing them. Don't know why really. Could send out a couple of post cards and call it good. But this is cheaper and more fun. "Embrace the technology." It also gives me something to do during these "down times". It makes me feel sociable. Connected. I know some of you are having difficulty accessing this blog. I really don't know why but there is a bit of a learning curve. As a friend of my always said..."slam any key to continue!" Some of you have sent encouragement. I assume those of you that have issues with this will simply not lurk on "Adventures of Dale and Sarah"!

We are starting to count down the days left in Provence. We have enjoyed our time here. Seen a lot. Not seen enough. No beach time--weather has not been cooperative. Have not met as many of the locals as I would have liked. We are a bit isolated here but my, have we enjoyed the cottage! Using terms like "I could live here" and "It's so peaceful". The "simple life". Haven't come close to Rick Steves' ittenerary but don't feel that we have missed out on much. One would think a month long vacation ("lifestyle!") would be adequate. We came with no real agenda and invissioned time simply hanging out at the cottage, Sarah knitting and me reading, but it hasn't happened that way. We've been busy. Gotta go back to work and our real life to get some rest! 

Tomorrow we go to Avignon. Probably for two days. See the sighs, see the bridge: "Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse, on y danse, sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse tous en rond". 

A train ride...

Lounging over lunch of fried beef and leftover ratatouille comparing with Pierre the efficiency of France's healthcare system and our system that is agreeably is somewhat of a mess, we realize we have 5 minutes to catch the bus for Bellegarde and the train station. We jump up leaving behind cartoon clouds around assorted plates and partially eaten cake and rush down 3 flights of polished wooden steps and run the half block to meet the bus just as it enters town. In Bellegarde we have coffee at the neat picturesque station cafe and wait for our train. No paper or throwaway even in the train station--coffee in little ceramic demitasse cups with saucers and wine in glass. The only obvious disposable items were at McDonald's! Our bullet nosed train silently glides into the station seemingly suspended between rail and overhead electric cable and we take our reserved seats with a polite "bonjour" to the woman sitting across the little fold-up table and store our luggage in the overhead rack. With little delay and almost inperceiverably the train moves forward accelerating to smooth blinding speeds. No back and forth rocking or click-clack of the rails here! With a few stops in quaint mountain towns the car fills with travelers dragging luggage, locals carrying shopping bags and tourists pushing bikes--all headed to the warmth and escape of southern France. The mood is respectfully quiet with hushed conversation or self reflection. Sarah knits as I write--our activity interrupted as one of us spots interesting scenery out speeding windows. Clusters of old mid-evil villages no longer excite us but we are still thrilled by the sights of castles, whole or part, that dot most hilltops along the valley and giant windmills slowly turning wind in this corridor into electricity. For hours we pass bare rock cliffs thrust up eons ago forming this route for merchants and warriors. In Marseille we dine on baguette sandwiches of ham, cheese and butter that Pierre insisted I make before leaving with crisp apples from the trees surrounding his office for desert. A conductor comes through punching little holes in tickets and police stroll through, their German Shepherd sniffing ankles and bags. With a left at Marseille we head east, facing forward now rather than backward, with the sun reflecting gold off the Mediterranean and neat rows of grape vines turing the same color with the changing weather. Palm trees now grow next to stucco houses with small balconies taking advantage of the day's final light as the shore curves away south and north. We will soon be in Nice and walking distance from the hostel. I know a lovely little bar just around the corner....

Genoa

The daycare that shares the building with the hostel has let out. Sixty kids attempt to burn off energy of being cooped up for 8 hours as parents sit, talk, and smoke while weary travelers wander in after a long day of transit or one too many museum. I don't even know where to begin to describe Genoa. The days have blurred and I've had little time to write and record my thoughts. We have seen the sights! I don't know if my dogs will ever stop hurting. And we have been no further than the route of bus #40 and the old city!! 

Five museums over the past 2 days: Galleria Nazioale di Palazzo Spinola, Museo Navale, Palazzo Andrea Doria, and Palazzo del Principle, and Castello D'Alberis. Little is behind glass and guards keep a close eye but I don't think museum patrons here would think about touching or allowing kids to climb on things. Two ways into town and both involve the #40 bus that navigates the narrow switchbacks--the driver anticipating his ability to pass cars and trucks a block away. This drive can either nauseatingly take you all the way down to town, disembarking at any number of spectacular fountains or for half a nausea you can get off half way down, then entering a very nondescript wooden door, take an elevator  down thru solid rock 263 meters and then horizontal on tracks another 2300 meters to be expelled just yards from the main train station. The neighborhood; a little seedy with ongoing restoration, a university and a strong Sudanese population; is within walking distance of old historic downtown Genoa: Via Garibaldi lined with the mansions of 16th century Genoese merchants and aristocrats complete with peeling frescos from vaulted ceilings, now housing banks and real estate brokers; a maze of shoulder width alleys connecting small squares in front of aged churches with crumbling walls yet inside stunning carved wood, stone and gold proclaiming the power and status of the Christian god; gastronomic oasis of ristorantes, trattorias, pizzerias and ice cream stands scattered among shops selling shoes, purses, expensive clothes and knock off electronics all with a seemingly arbitrary schedule of operation. 

Church of St. Lorenzo--stark black and white marble exterior; painted by angels inside. Tour groups of kids taking pictures, tired travelers resting out of the sun, a few practitioners praying and a white cloaked priest talking on a cell phone. You can visit Columbus's home, a 20 ft square box of old rock (rebuilt after his discovery of the West Indies) for 4 euro. A bus ticket gets us on a boat. We join tourists and commuters to Pegli. We wait for the return boat at Oasis del Mar--a family run bar overlooking the bay with only us and the family as customers. Back in port after dark. We're tired and hungry. Walked up to Ferrari fountain to catch the bus with plan to grab pizza at the place above the hostel. Bought a couple of stale couissants at a bar as back up. Pizza joint closed. Thankfully the "bar" at the hostel is open. Microwave pasta and tomato sauce with stale couissants for dinner. Bier included in the price of the meal.

Genoa, Geneva, Gex...

We are back in our comfortable little cottage in La Garde Freinet. We need some down time. It's been go, go, go since we left. We're too old for all this: 3 countries, 3 major cities, 4 small towns, two lengthy train rides, a boat ride, 2 hostels (one of them twice), 2 castles, several churches with belfries, a huge garage sale, a birthday party, and a partridge in a pear tree all in eleven days! The weather quite cold (near freezing) in Gex near Geneva is balmy now down here in the south. The chestnuts have dropped since we left and the grape leaves are turning red and gold. Now that I'm back with my familiar Mac and American keyboard I'm going to transcribe some of my musings and simply upload with the next internet connection. It may not be in exact chronological order but you'll the general idea. Hell, it was easier to keep connected in Thailand and Nepal than here! 

I lost my internet connection while posting our experiences in Gex so I wasn't able to express my gratitude and appreciation for the hospitality shown to us by the Allex family. Friends since a Rotary Club exchange program between my sister and Pierre's sister 35 years ago we once again invited ourselves to impose on their hospitality. Six years ago they allowed us to be part of their family and again their warmth and generosity is overwhelming. Diane, after a visit to her native Poland, arrives the day after we do and puts her home back together after Pierre and the girls have been home alone for a month, arranges meals, and makes us feel comfortable; while Pierre puts his business on hold to entertain and show us the local sites. At the same time, daughter, Dorothy, turns 18 and is given a surprise breakfast by 6 of her girlfriends with celebratory assist from us with cake from the local patisserie and the Happy Birthday song. 

These moments; sometimes brief with the playful fleeting interaction of a child, or time spent engaged in incomprehensible conversation and pantomime with a helpful stranger; or three intimate  days of closeness and intrusion into the lives of friends. Novel for us but no more exotic for them than yet again visiting local tourist attractions or repeatedly and patiently tolerating an American's attempt at learning a language that results only in rare identifiable nouns and often misused conjugation, is what makes all this worthwhile.

 The insecurity of travel, the feelings of helplessness and dependency, the chasing after trains hauling luggage with broken zippers, the occasional overcharge at cafes and the frequent night on hard lumpy beds in cramped hostel bedrooms is all compensated by the kindness of strangers, the 2 hour lunches and the thousand year old buildings. 

We Americans forget, or indeed don't even know, that there is a whole world out here this is different. They talk different. They eat different. They pray different. But, they talk, eat, and pray. And there are a lot of them-these different people; and I travel to acknowledge these differences, least I forget the diversity that exists not only on a globular scale but within the bounds of my own secular place. Thank you Pierre, Diane, Dorothy and Caroline.

Onward to some down time

In Nice. One night in hostel. Get car today and head back to La Gare Fernet for some rest and a Mac. Verbage and photos to follow.......

Headin' south...

Packing up to head south to Nice then our cottage in the mountains we now refer to as home. Looking forward to our simple life again of getting up late, reading or writing, maybe a walk into town for fresh cuissoiants, or just sipping wine on our patio under the now familuar chestnut trees. It has been quite cold these past few days. I hope the south of France will live up to it's reputation as the playground in the sun. And not just for the rich and famous.



We have been quite busy. Besides a gracious host Pierre has been a wonderful tour guide. Yesterday was spent touring old Geneva. Being Sunday, there was no shopping to be done so we visited lush green parks with families having picnics dispite the cold; walked along the lakefront watching one of Geneva's landmarks, the fountain (or as Pierre calls it-the "sprinkler") send a plume of water hundreds of feet in the air soaking any and everyone down wind; stood in awe at the UN building and in reverence at the building where the Geneva Convention was signed (I understand some countries still today abide by it's rules!); we climbed hundreds of spiriling stone steps to the top of the bell tower in the church much of the protastant reformation occured (other than the fact that this appears to be a pretty big deal in the history of western religion--the old church and the view was way impressive); and we ate at McDonalds. On the drive back to Gex we drove by the headquarters for C.E.R.N., the particle accelerator buried under the French country side and I can assure you all there is no black hole in France.



Sarah wanted to see a real castle so on Sat. Pierre took us to visit Chillon on the edge of Lake Geneva. Built during the 11th thu 15th centeries, it has been the primary protector (and tax collection point) for the only north south route thru this area but now with the elevated autoroute and rushing cars 200 yards from it's moat it only collects tourist's dollars/euros/francs. Renovated accurately and in detail you can see why Lord Byron was so inspired to include this site in his writtings.



And on Friday, certainly never expecting to simply be doing tourist stuff with Pierre, he took us to the fundraiser for the local church. The biggest garage sale I have ever seen, covering the space of a huge exibition hall with everything from ancient straw covered jugs to clothes to furniture to Barbie dolls. Dinner was a cold plate of local cheese and sausage followed by boiled potatoes and grilled saussage served with enthusiasm by the teens and kids of the church youthgroup. A most enjoyable experience of the local region, people and life.

After taking advantage of the hospitality of Pierre and Diane we will today catch a bus to Belleguard then the train to Nice. A night in the hostel then a car tomorrow we should be comfortable in our little cottage by tomorrow night. Then what????

Il Veliero

Asked Ula, the most helpful day receptionsionist at the hostel, for the name of her favorite restaurant. We arrive at Il Veliero after taking bus 40 to the end then #31 along the sea and a lengthy discussion in Italian with an elderly gentleman who, I think, was insisting there is a "muie buanio" restaurant 3 min. walk further. Down steps and thru a tunnel along the seawall we enter a cavernous room with white fan folded napkins sprouting from every wine glass and are directed to a small table against windows looking out on a choppy Meditterrean as dusk slowly turns blue sea to black. Since we are early and the place is empty our young and very charming waitress patiently and with great humor attempts to not only explain the items on the menu but also gives us a crash course on the procedure and etiquette of eating Italian. We settle on an antipasta and prima course to share and decide to wait to go further with secondi.

The carafe of rosè I thought I ordered is a bottle with a pleasant light effervesent. I guess some confusion in translation in communication is expected! A plate of flat dough with olive oil and a little oregano - "pizza without the pizza" according to our waitress, is presented followed by Piatto il Velicro di Mare: a tasting of 12 different fish prepared 12 different ways. Other than fresh sardines in a light olive oil brine, thin slices of raw salmon lox and a single perfect muscle I haven't a clue what anything else is! Lightly breaded and crisp fried fish filets, some type of bivalve smothered in a to,ato salsa and a half of a lemon filled with white meat the texture of crab. Next, Ravioli de pesce was brought out. Tender cheese filled pillows of dough-white on one side, black on the other-covered in a rich dark sauce the color of the muscle shells scattered throughout. Under most circumstances we would have stopped here but I wasn't going to leave the best restaurant we had visited in Italy without going all the way!

Our waitress, now rather busy, resorted to simply asking the folks at the next table to translate every time we questioned the menu so I pointed and picked. It's on a menu...somebody eats it!! The thin slice of skate came bathed in a green (parsley?) butter (lot's of butter) sauce. The fish was unexciting, even a bit bland, but the sauce was sublime-only fully appreciated with bits of bread submerged to soak up the rich nectar. We ended our meal with a quivering Panna cotta drizzled with caramel sauce and in lew of coffee was given complementary lemon sherbert served in the same flutes that our complementary champagne came in to start this wonderful gastronomical experience in Italian cusine. Fortynine euro and 2 busses-not bad!

In Gex now and having to type on their difficult French keyboard again. Took train from Genoa to Milano to Geneva. Misscommunication with my friend, Pierre, had us waiting to for a pick up in the Geneva train station that was not going to happen. Unable to get him by phone and unable to buy anything because Switzerland has chosen not to adapt the euro as legal tender and the money changers were closed to get Swiss francs, we went thru a time of problem solving until we were able to rent computer time at the station and email him requesting him to pick us up. An hour later we are put to bed on his foldout couch in the living room and grateful for his unquestioning hospitality.

Hostel revisited

Info at Genoa's train station says bus 35 then 40. After a wait in the hot Italian sun bus 40 takes us up switchback after switchback. Even being a small bus with only one seat per side other cars and buses still occasionally need to back up to allw us room to pass. At the top of the hill, the last stop, the hostel looms like some government utilatarian residential monolith (it indeed used to be a school) glowing stark white in the afternoon sun. Doors open at 3 and we are given a key by a somewhat sour but efficient tight haired woman and instructed to get sheets before our climb up to room 170. A "family" room with 2 bunkbeds and a single acquired at the Italian equivulant of Kmart is all ours.

These hostel travelers are different than I remember from 30 years ago. Backpacks have given way to rolling suitcases and the art of socialization has all but dissappeared. There is little eye contact much less introductions or the expected "where are you from?" and "where are you going next?". Most of the travelers have cell phones and many have laptops distancing them even further. Of course Sarah and I are in the old fart category of the group and we have chosen to get a private room so I suspect it might be unfair to totally generalize.

Italy bound...

Up at 7, quietly pack, breakfast of bread and jam and good byes to our new best friends and at the train station in plenty of time for our 10am departure. A Herald Tribune and a moment of pnick to find the right car we settle in across a silent Italian and a Japanese tourist who makes multiple cell phone calls trying to book a room for tonight. We are seated on the left side of the train going backwards. I'm sure the folks on the otherside are getting quite bored staring at the blue of the Meditarian and the redicoulously oppulent yaghts while I watch signage change from French to Italian, architechure get more tropical and the mountains get taller.

Again old news but that's the way this intermittant internet thing is going to work. At least in Italy they have the right keyboard configuration but there is only one comptuer at this hostel. Many of the travelers have their own laptops and are lined up at the windows at the end of the hall stealing wifi from the neighbors.

Having a great time.....wish y'all were here!

Nice walk...

Left hostel around 11am. Sarah had pulled nameso fo laine (wool) shops out of the phonebook. While sitting on edge of a fountain we reviewed a map and discovered several in the vecintiy. Three yarn stores later it's time for lunch. But first the toilets at Nice Etole-Nordstrom's on steroids. Picked up hamd and cheese and butter on bagettes with slice of flan for desert at snack counter there and ate it on marble bench at Place Massena. Then a definate downer at Handicap International event across the street raising awarness for victims of land mines. Next we're off to see the chateau. The long hard climb up uncountable steps puts us on the site of Nice's original count's townhouse-replaced now by a siovenier shop and one hell of a back drop for the 3 weddings we witnessed. Eventually bored with the view of the beach curving away west to the airport we heded down, past the jewish cemetary, into the maze of narrow streets in the old quarter for beer and tea at Antonia Cfe at the edge of the croweded little square in front of St. Bascus(?) church. Now sufficiently tired and a little cranky we head back to the hostel for some down time. We make note of an inviting resteruant to return to for dinner.

We won't be alone tonight. There are packs and clothes scattered about our room and an unconsicuous female corpse on one of the top bunks. A couple of quite showers and a computer fix we are off to dnner. Our chosen place turns out to be a German resturant with plates piled high with steaming sauerkraut toped with sausasge and pig knuckles. Oysters and seafood also a specility so I had a perfect whole grilled dorrey while the fish and I watched Sarha enjoy duck fois quais and salad neioise. Sarah hits the wall as we leanve so it's off to the hostel for bed. Two of our young roommates shortley arrive and I invite Michael to check out the bar around the corner. After jokes about getting permission from our wives we spend a perfect 2 hours drinking beer n a sidewalk table as the other boisterous customer finish their meals and we solve many of the world's problems from US and Austrailian points of view.

Of course that's 0ld news now. We have been in Genova for about 36 hours.

Hostel life...

Had an address, a phone confirmation that a room is available, a tourist map and bus 98 from the airport where we dropped off the car. Got off a stop too late. Back tracked counting streets and looking down alleys. I shouldered our green luggage/backpack and my day bag. I hear the wheels of Sarah's carry-on click clack along the pavers behind. The 3 story sunflower yellow hostel behind a lavender gate sits in a residential area a street paralleling the shopping district. The guy at the desk speaking heavily accented English checks us in, gives us each a sleeping sheet and directs us to room 201-a mixed (coed) dorm. Up 2 flights of cracked marble steps our key card lets us into a very clean room with 3 sets of bunk beds, a small yellow table matching the 50s style of everything else, a sink and bathroom and a 12 ft window opening onto a small baloclny overlooking the somewhat shabby paved courtyard. Tossing our luggage on two lower beds and locking our valuables (mostly meds) in the little padlocked cabinet we are off to explore the city.

We return after dinner; pay 2 € for 30 min of computer time and 2€ for a beer, we check our email and make a rushed post on the blog. We settle in for bed releaved that we are alone until around midnight when 3 Filipano exchange students appologetically arrive after a pilgramige to Lourdes. Up at 8 after a cacophony of alarm clocks we dress in a flooded bathroo, and share a single sink to wash and brush. Included breakfast of coffee, juice, bread, butter, jam and cereal is in the communal room down stairs. Some people packed and headed out but most sleepily getting fueled for their day. Couples and small groups of friends-mostly young; two women with small children and quite a few of us seasoned (read senior) travelers? Even an elderly couple with hubby in a wheelchair.

Tomorrow--Genoa.

Nice in Nice

Arrived Nice today. Checked in to youth hostel to save a buck then spent 80 e for dinner of bouillasse. Know where our priorities are. Sunset on Med was glorious.

Why?

Why do we do this? This travel, this sojourn, this wander? Ouest for meaning? Need to experience new things? Opportunity for escape? All good reasons. But why are we, Sarah and I, here? Vacation? Sure. Although I would rather refer to it as lifestyle. A break from work or a certain complacency  at home? An urge to observe and experience how some of the other 2 billion of Earth's people exist? To realize it is not just us? We are not alone. And, we do it because we can. 

Sitting on a white plastic chair at a white plastic table at a brasserie on the town square of Gonfaron. The old stone church stands strong and silent to my right. In front of it, what was probably once lawn, now space for parking. Three and four story buildings form a continuous wall around the parameter. The only difference of one from the other is the color of the ground floor shop or the shutters of the apartments above. Tourist and locals alike sit under the various cafe awnings sipping coffee or beer. We watch as a wizened old man in tattered brown jacket takes an eternity to slowly shuffle across the square. A nodded greeting, a twinkle and a smile for Sarah when their eyes met. Cane in one hand and shopping bag in the other he is met with the French double kiss on the cheeks by the owners of this establishment and helped to sit at one of the few other tables taking up the width of the sidewalk. Church bells chime out noon and Sarah gets pooped on by the pigeon on the window sill above. Tractors pulling small trailers filled with dark purple clusters of grapes ramble along the narrow streets  on their way to the local winery leaving a sweet heady smell in their wake. Women hurry by with shopping bags full, baguettes sticking out, on their way to their big noon meal. Stores preparing to close for their customary 2 hour break.

So, it's lunch time. We walk around the square and settle on a small restaurant down a side street. Tables with red Kronenbourg beer umbrellas guard against the sun. From the interactions of the waitress, mostly locals seated here. Water from an ancient fountain flows into a stone wash basin as cars and trucks and the occasional tour bus recklessly pass each other on the narrow highway running through the middle of town. Today's "Formule du Jour" of salade mixte, paupitte de veau, riz, legumes and 1/4 liter of vin for 12.50 is written in chalk on the sign hanging from a tree. The closest translation I can find in my dictionary for "paupitte" is "eyelid". Order it anyway. Hey, it IS on a menu! Ground veal wrapped in bacon and tied with string in a rich brown sauce with mushrooms. Yummm.....

Our planned tour de circuit continues as we drive thru old cork oak forests. Trees peeled bare to the height of a man. Roads winding nauseatingly over mountain ridges. Narrow enough to require drivers to slow down and hug the edge to pass. We stop in Collobrieres hoping to get gas. Told by the lady at the tourist office that the only gas station is closed today. Will risk the drive back on 1/4 tank but in the meantime we walk the 12th century town crossing the bridge built at that time and get lost in the ancient old streets and alleys to the ruins of the old church above the town. We drive to Monastere de la Verne after passing a sign that warns of narrow winding road. You've got to be kidding!!! Only had to back to a wide spot once! The monastery, rebuilt several times since 1174, is now a cloister for nuns and a exhibition for tourists on the sight originally of a pagan temple dedicated to the god Laverna, the protector of thieves. Spiritual, if one is so inclined, but certainly one big impressive stone structure. 

We make it back to Cogolin where we can buy gas and spend some time in the Cyber Cafe checking email. Too time consuming to try to post this blog with the strange keyboards of France. The "M" is where the ";" is  and the "A" is where the "Q" is and you have to shift for a "." as well as all numbers! 

Tomorrow is a day to stay close to home. (And probably post this) We have to pack and get ready to travel. We plan to return the car to Nice on Friday and then go to Genoa, Italy. Because we can...because we must.

We ok

Found a cyber cafe near La Garde. But will retun with my computer later. Key board is weird and it takes to much tie. We are well;

Rubbing shoulders with yachties....

Coffee or tea and beer for me. We spent yesterday driving about 60km north to the Grand Canyon du Verdon. Not as long as our Grand Canyon but reputed to be as deep and certainly as impressive. Winding single lane roads hugging the edge. Motorcycles passing between us and oncoming traffic! Small villages and the occasional castle visible on the opposite side. Being such a difficult drive, several stops in quaint (can't use that word enough to describe the country villages) towns for a bit of a rest. Of course getting lost on the way is part of the charm. Of course, IF I had a decent navigator who can see the little writing on the map and match it to a sign on a road and IF we had at least one compass in the car that did not always show north to be toward the metal in the dashboard, and if asking directions was even an option...thank goodness for roundabouts. When in doubt, keep going around. I wonder if there is a limit as to how many times one can circle these things? There is a road that circles the entire gorge but we didn't see a real need to add an additional 50km to a trip that I can't really see anyway since, I'M THE ONE WITH HIS EYES ONLY ON THE ROAD! Am told there is rafting down there and I have to assume the climbing would be great but being the tourist that we are, we only manage to stop at the occasional overlook and go, "Wow!!". 

Got back to La Garde after dark. Hooked up with the dentist (see above post) and caught dinner in town at one of the last open restaurants. We both had the plate de jour of pasta with mixed seafood in a light tomato and olive oil based sauce. Oysters were available but at almost $3 each, I declined. Then home to our small comfortable abode to bring in the laundry that had been hanging in the rain all day and listen to the critters preparing for bed in the walls. 

Now in Port Grimand. Had plans to catch boat to St Tropez for the day but after a late start and choppy seas we decided to just hang here. And, this bar has internet access. La Bohemia, a low brow oasis in a sea of very high end yachts and people. Port Grimand is the "Venice of France". A developed community of townhouses each with their own private boat parking and shops for all the tourists who come to gawk at the boats. Like Disneyland but instead of the Magic Castle you see masts and money! This bar, my kind of bar, has a paper back lending library, a lounging room with TV and some teenager crashed on the beatup couch and on Sat. they are have "Cross Dress Party"! 

The simple life...

Sitting out under the chestnut trees after dinner. A fine cigar, cheap wine, my page light by a candle shoved into an old wine bottle....which in the gentle breeze flickers, burns fast and drips onto the tablecloth. There is an oil lamp here-one of those contemporary glass jobs with the oil reservoir blowen inside of a column of glass. No oil and no wick however. Plenty of olive oil around thought. Just need a wick. Cotton cordage, woven thread (thank you, Sarah), a cut up sock (smell of burning elastic), a strip of sheeting...none worked. Technique, methodology or material?  I now write by the glow from the window. The simple life...

No telephone, no TV, no computer. Sarah and I both admit we miss communication--news, entertainment, connection with friends and family. The leaves talk to the wind. A dog barks in the dark distance. The simple life...

We built a fire against the cold. Dinner of leftover mashed potatoes topped with chicken from lunch, a bit of leeks, covered with cheese and baked. Accompained with bread, olives, and salad of greens, pine nuts, carrots and aoili provencial, the local mayonaise. The simple life...

This morning I walked into the village. Shopping bag under my arm, it's market day. Vendors on the square selling cheese, meats, olives, spices, flowers, scarfs, jewlery, even mattresses. I return with bag full of jam, potatoes, almond croissant, roasted chicken and of course, bagette. After lunch, a nap. The simple life...

Visited with the neighbors, petted their dog, planned an excursion to Grand Canyon du Verdon, drank rose' from an unmarked bottle. The simple life...

Lost a crown off a back molar the other day. Glued it back on with some temporary dental filling I've been carrying in my first aid kit for 15 years. Got the name of the only dentist in town from the board outside the Office de Tourism. Noticed light in her office this evening. Thought I'd make an appointment for the next day. Was asked "what's wrong" in broken English and told to wait. Fifteen minutes later I'm in her only dental chair and without asking my name, no forms, no medical history, and no gloves my crown is glued in place perfectly. For 35 eruos! Ah, the simple life.....

Had more consistent internet connection in Nepal than I have here. Even if it was powered by a line of car batteries there! According to the tourist office in La Garde Freinet the closest internet is in Grimaud about 30 min. away and that isn't wireless. Cost 10c/min. and I couldn't get connected to our blog. If you are reading this it means we have indeed found some way to connect. Have not tried yet to drive around checking for hot spots but Sainte-Maxime is suppose to have wireless in their downtown area so I think we will check out Stainte-Maxime today. Our plan to go to Port Grimaud, catch a boat to St. Tropez in time for their weekly market got foiled by us sleeping in till 11!!  That's ok. It's a bit overcast today. Doubt we would have seen Jennifer Lopez who was reportedly hanging there. We could have gone to the 20th anniversary party of the English language radio station in Monaco yesterday. Heard the Prince made an appearance. I assume that is THE Prince and not Prince!? 

The cottage is all clean. At least to our satisfaction. The refrigerator is stocked with beer, cheese, juice, pate', sausage, olives. Had planned to have dinner in town last night but while watching the rain from under the awning of Le Petit Bar sipping beer and cafe au lait we decided to stay home. Lintels spiced with the local provence herbs over rice with salad and aioli mayo and a bit of bread and butter seemed to suffice just fine. Although cool and wet outside we were cozy surrounded by thick stone walls and the soft yellow glow of our kitchen light. The vase of sunflowers on the table like a scene from Van Gogh.

Now we sit on our little stone patio listening to the wind whisper through the chestnut trees and the occasional car accelerating up the highway in the valley.  Sarah starting a new knitting project and I'm doing, well, pretty much nothing but drink coffee. Should think about lunch at some point. Hum, what kind of cheese will we have with our bread today and should we have pate de carnard or maybe a bit of leftover pork sausage. Of course a glass of Domaine De La Giscle, a Cotes de Provence at 3 euro would go lovely with that. 

We drove to Grimaud and Cogolin on Thurs. Grimaud for internet connection, a bust, and Cogolin to hit the big supermarket, E. Leclerc. Like wal-mart for groceries it had EVERYTHING. Grocery carts are chained together requiring 1 euro to unlock but the plastic hand baskets also have wheels. I did find out an alarm sounds if you try to take these thru the checkout! No "paper or plastic" here. Most people have these huge tough plastic bags that can be purchased at the checkout or they simply take everything loose back to their car to load their own shopping baskets. And the food...isles of cheese, displays of pate' and terrenes, black as night blood sausage coiled in the meat counter; fish, big and small, squid, eel, snails; more cheese; milk unrefrigerated on shelves; an entire isle of chocolate; more 3 euro bottles of wine than expensive (altho they do have a walk in wine cellar I did not investigate). No extensive shelf space for chips or soda and little cheap candy. Little processed foods--no Spaghetti-Os. 

Starting to rain. Back inside to fix lunch then off to explore. Thank goodness for small cars. No huge SUVs here. Streets too narrow, parking to tight and roads too curvy.

So, obviously we hooked up. Took a drive to St. Maxime, (any excuse for a drive), a conversation with folks at tourist office, then harbor office until finding Internet Cafe. We drove all over several closer towns with the computer open trying to find hot spots to no avail. Folks are either more sophisticated in France or tighter with their wifi. So, obviously also, postings may be few and far between. Don't know how we are going to get our electronic fixes. (Sarah is worse than me!) 

Until our next connection.............

Arrival...

Awoke this  morning watching the dark rough hewn beams of the ceiling slowly appear from the  whitewashed plaster as dawn's light enters through windows set in 2 foot thick walls. We arrived yesterday (the 16th) after pretty much uneventful travels except for being awake most of 24 hrs, a screaming 2 year old on the plane, dealing with flight anxiety (mine--and I like to fly!), the rental car being more than we expected (no surprise there), missing the turn south off the freeway (or whatever they call it here) and having to go an extra 20 km costing 8.50 euros, not having the correct change at two toll booths and holding up the line while the attendant impatiently shows me how to slide a large bill into a change slot (duh--just like we have in America!) and both of us cranky and rummy. Since we did have enough light we decided to drive on rather than stay on the road near Nice. After one false turn out side of La Garde Freinet we found the over grown and rutted driveway to Chris's place pretty easily and was immediately welcomed by an enthusiastically barking German Shepherd who wasn't going to keep me from getting out of my car. Turns out she's friendly and playful and has alerted her owner, Rasthmus, the neighbor who helped me find the water and electric junction boxes and welcomed me to the neighborhood. Too tired to do much more than toss some sheets on the bed and drive into town to eat at the first restaurant for dinner, we were in bed and asleep by 9:30. 

This 400 year old house has been in Chris's family for some years and since his mother died it has been sitting empty. Usually someone from the family makes a yearly sojourn to clean up the place and do general maintenance but not this year. So, today was cleaning day. After washing out a couple of cups Sarah made tea she found while I gathered all the towels that have been hanging since last human occupancy and did laundry in a plastic bucket. Our game plan next dictated that we would clean the bedroom so we could unpack and feel comfortable. Besides it was going to be easier than cleaning the kitchen. Cob webs pulled from the ceiling, rugs shaken outside, rat shit brushed from table tops to floor to be swept out with leaves and dust. Sarah shrieking when she is surprised by a scampering lizard. Then break for lunch. 

La Garde Freinet sits at the end of a valley as it starts rising into the mountains. An old town of stone three story buildings shoulder to shoulder it was obviously built for another era.  Even our little Sazuke Swift has difficulty navigating the narrow winding cobblestone streets. Today was market day so we bought provisions for dinner but nothing needing refrigeration. Our kitchen hasn't been cleaned yet, remember. Lunch at one of the several restaurants bordering the square. Sarah had a salad de provincial  of lettuce, sliced tomatoes, hard boiled eggs, olives and tuna with a creamy vinaigrette dressing while I had something I couldn't guess by reading the menu but was told by the waitress/cook that it was sausage, ham and eggs all mixed together. Served in a earthenware dish with a conical lid (I don't remember the name of this) it was mixed up to point of looking like Alpo but, my, was it tasty! A stop at the ATM and the tourist center (no internet in town, nearest supermarket is 12 km south, there is one store that sells knitting supplies (had a limited and apparently very old inventory), might be able to buy hardware items at the only gas station (one pump) in town) rounded out our break, so it was back to the house to clean the kitchen. 

Chain saw and weed wacker put in the shed. Fire place scraped out. Flat surfaces cleaned of dust and more rat shit. Mostly rat shit!  Dishes stored on open shelves. Sarah washed the top shelf, saving the lower on for later. We now have a few glasses, a pan or two to cook in and an expresso machine ready to go. Hand made windmills and whirley gigs crafted by skilled but bored hands are set on the hutch in a place of honor.  

Finally, after showers, dinner of wine (2.70 euro and good), cheese, bread, salami and olives on the flagstone back patio as the wind blows through the lush leaves of the cork oak and the shadow creeps up the mountain across the valley during the last moments of daylight.