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.