The Most Dangerous Game

Last week, as I was running along a bike path through a park not far from my house, I was distracted from my hyperventilating by the sound of two sharp reports. “Gunshots?” I asked myself, immediately launching into an oxygen-deprived half-dream about interrupting a drug deal gone bad or a violent domestic dispute.  A few minutes later a happy springer spaniel with a cow bell on his collar bounded up to me, tail a waggin’. “This clearly isn’t the sort of dog a drug lord would have”, I thought to myself just as an older gentlemen, sporting camouflage gear and a shotgun appeared out of the trees. We swapped ‘bon jours’ and I continued on my way wondering if the shotgun could have possibly been the source of the sounds I had heard earlier. I only had to wonder for about thirty seconds as two more shots were fired from the general vicinity of the nice man and his dog. I decided wind sprints were in order and briskly trotted back to the main road and then home.  Later that day, my neighbor, Luc, was out washing his Audi for the 12^th time in six days and I thought he might be able to tell me whether or not joggers were in season. Luc has no English – absolutely none. However, he does have a lot of French, which he generously shares with me at every opportunity, knowing full well I have almost no French comprehension.  After an extended mime session on both our parts, he was able to tell me that hunting season had started the week before, and I wasn’t likely to be shot while jogging, provided I stayed upright to avoid any resemblance to a boar or a rabbit. He didn’t seem the least surprised that someone was blasting away in the park. He also probably mentioned he was a hunter himself, and would be out hunting pheasants with his dog Vulcan (pronounced Vool-Khan), and would I be interested in one or two should he manage to be successful, I think.  Apparently, his wife doesn’t like to eat dead things unless they’re killed and cleaned by strangers. I nodded in my best mime that I would be happy to take any dead things should he happen to bag one or two. For the uninitiated, most Saskatchewan boys know how to turn a dead thing into supper as long as a sharp knife or two is available. I forgot how disgusting the experience could be, as my last dead thing cleaning experience pre-dates MTV, compact disks and personal computers. The mission was accomplished on the back deck, much to the joy and amusement of the neighbours's cats. I give you a pheasant (female) before and after:

Baked (stuffed with sliced apple and onion) and served with baby potatoes and carrots, a pheasant provides just enough for three not terribly hungry people. Fortunately we had dessert.

Normally that would be enough excitement for one weekend, but not for Ann. She had signed all three of us up for a team running relay Sunday morning. My initial thoughts on this matter were neutral but I knew I had French bureaucracy working for me. As it turns out, a person can’t enter a checkers tournament without a medical certificate, and we weren’t able to find a doctor who could see us on short notice. Darn! Now I would have to spend Sunday morning watching France destroy Canada at the rugby world cup. Too much to hope for as the nice man running the relay race was able to provide us with a doctor who would happily see all three of us on Friday at 6:45 p.m..  How is that possible? Does this doctor person have no social life? No family?

Certificates in hand, we arrived bright and early Sunday morning for three-leg relay (not  a three-legged relay) where each leg starts and finishes at the same place (Eikeden). Ann would start with a 6 km leg, I would take the second position with a 10 km stretch, and Perri would anchor with a 5 km leg. Our goal was simple: don’t finish last.

After a quick perusal of the other competitors I began to wonder whether we had set the bar too high and, as Ann chugged out of the starting gates, I began to unconsciously change the goal to “finish”.  To my surprise, Ann returned much, much, later in a respectable 28th position (2^nd or 3^rd last). I then loped away just as some of the better teams were lapping us (a 5 km loop). Eventually, I found the finish, having reeled in a few of the runners on recreational teams with names like “beerhounds” and “couch potatoes”.

I then handed off to Perri, who was fairly excited about the whole event, who then took off like a rocket, in spite of my repeated advice to start slow. She survived, but the bitter harvest of a summer resisting physical exercise was almost too much to stomach as she oozed across the finish line.

 To be fair, she had just recovered from a cold, so she wasn’t at her best, and we exceeded expectations by finishing 27^th in a field of 31. Yippee!!

Normally 27^th place doesn’t get you much. However, when you are the only team in the ‘family’ division, good things happen:

The girls got roses with the cup. We were also treated to a box of fresh oysters (enjoyed with the pheasant), cookies from a local patisserie, and some passes to the local fitness club. Not a bad payoff for a bunch of foreigners.

Seriously now, next week: Milan.

   

Le Weekend - Basque to the Future

If it’s the weekend then we must be going somewhere. This time Ann has discovered some obscure boat race in San Sabastian, a mere two hours drive down the coast, just across the Spanish line.  The race has its roots in the fishing business when rowboats were the tool of choice when putting out nets. Eventually egos got in the way and now there are races every year with teams from towns up and down the coast.

Since the race was Sunday and Ann is a strong believer in the old adage about idle hands being the playthings of the devil, we headed off Saturday morning to explore some terrain in Basque country near the town of Bayonne. You know you’re in Basque country when the road signs become completely incomprehensible, through the addition of x’s and q’s and the removal of helpful vowels. One could argue the Basques are slightly spicier than their northern neighbors in both attitude and cuisine. It became clear to us that this may derive from their generous use of locally grown peppers.

We stumbled across a pepper farm conveniently attached to a gift shop on a little back road near Bayonne. Upon entering, the salesperson commenced upon a comprehensive lecture about the rules around hot pepper designations (along with pork, cheese, and curiously, chocolate. Who knew the Spanish gave up on the chocolate business when running the Jews out of town back during the Inquisition? Apparently, the displaced population moved to Bayonne and brought the cocoa importing business with them, making Bayonne the chocolate capital of Europe.  I hope the Belgians, and perhaps the Swiss, have been informed).  We also completed an informative walking tour of the pepper plants while just barely dodging heat stroke. I think the walking tour softens you up for the gift shop. I expect many poor purchasing decisions are made while dangerously dehydrated. 

From there, we had a nice picnic lunch (note how Perri's disposition changes as a meal approaches) and just made the last funicular to the top of a local mountain. It was never made clear to me why a funicular was built 100 years ago to go to the top of this particular mountain, as a couple of restaurants are the only things of interest once you get there. The view is nice but I would think the neighboring peaks provide something competitive.

  

We managed to reach Bayonne before dusk and checked into a quaint hotel. Ann assured me the hotel represented traditional Basque hospitality and not to worry about the name (Best Western). We were in the old part of town, just up the street from the cathedral, which I thought was very nice until the next morning.

 I remember waking to the sound of church bells and trying to guess the time by the number of tolls. Well, I must have really slept in, because by my count it must have been about 800 o’clock. No pun intended, but what the hell?  You can be sure that in future, church proximity will be a significant factor in choosing a hotel locations. On the bright side, we were up, fed, and ready to go by 11 o’clock sharp for our day in San Sabastian.

San Sabastian is a typical beach vacation town, with a protected harbor and a couple of nice beaches: one with big waves and one without. I wasn’t sure what to expect with this boat race but the crowds around the bay suggested it was a big event. Once we finally found parking, I was astounded by the volumes of people, television coverage (including helicopters), and vocal fan support. Each boat was a distinct color  and the fans dressed so their was no doubt about their allegiances.

There was also plenty to eat, and the specialty of the day seemed to be grilled sardines with fresh bread, which I studiously avoided.

My personal high note of the weekend was reached when a sandwich vendor thought I was French. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’ve got some serious problems when I think being mistaken as French is a highlight. Still, it meant I didn’t have to attempt Spanish, which is worse than my French, for a few short minutes.

Once the races finished and we had had our lunch, we decided to wander through the park up to the old battlements. On our way there, I couldn’t help but notice the many street vendors providing cold beer and wine-by-the-bottle with no apparent concern for the age of the customers. It wasn’t until we were well into the park that the harsh repercussions of this policy were realized. Imagine stumbling into high school graduation party where the liquor cabinet had been left open and unattended. Now take that image and multiply by many thousands and you will have in your heads what we had before our eyes as we ascended through this no-longer-quite-so-beautiful park. Needless to say, there was plenty of grist for the ‘drinking is bad’ mill and Perri was entertained by many graphic examples of ‘there is such a thing as too much fun’. I couldn’t take any pictures for ethical reasons and, more importantly, I didn’t want to get beaten up by the many groups of drunken Spanish youths who were wary of our presence.  It seemed there was an unspoken agreement whereby adults allowed binge drinking by their kids provided it was done out of sight. I can't think of a better example of the value of local knowledge. With the exception of small clutches of terrified tourists, Ann and I were the only representatives of the adult demographic in a very large park. Ann later insisted on a picture of me although I could scarcely suppress the nausea and disgust I had experienced shortly before the shot.

The lesson from this experience: Next year, arrive early so Perri can get started with the local kids.

On a Sunday Morning Sidewalk

As expected, the pace of life has dropped off significantly here with the summer tourists migrating inland, and north. Nowhere is this more evident than the roads, where one can get from here to there without being surprised by a spontaneous parkade in the middle of the local highway, like some facebook flash mob where everyone stops their car at a prearranged time rather than breaking into song.  Today, the dark side of  ‘not summer’ reared its ugly head in the form of the grocery stores, and any other useful stores, all being closed.  I was forced to procure dinner at the local farmer’s market through incomprehensible muttering and gesturing reminiscent of a mime having a grand mal seizure.  With the stores being closed, Perri and I had no adequate defense against a family bike ride, and Ann pounced. I’ll admit the bike paths here are quite extraordinary. They are well maintained and I think from here I can ride to Spain in one direction and probably Moscow in the other (only the latter is a slight exaggeration) without ever getting on a real road.

Tonight, I was able to grill some chicken on my brand new Weber barbecue (this is blatant product placement - I'm sponsored by Weber). This may seem quite uneventful to those of you who live in a  civilized country. However, to get a French propane tank to provide gas to your North American barbecue is no simple matter. No less than three trips to the local hardware stores, two trips to the local service station, and one lengthy email from the Weber legal department stressing, in the strongest possible terms, the dangers involved with attempting to retro-fit one to the other, were required for us to get the whole package working in concert. Yippee! No more briquettes (what's that smell? Is that gas?).

School starts this week and with it comes a significant change of Perri’s daily rhythm. Her summer days have traditionally started each morning around 11.  Tomorrow, the alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m.. I think she'll struggle more with the early starts than she will with a new school in a new educational system

And speaking of the French school system: one curiosity I discovered, and there are plenty, is the absence of classes on Wednesday afternoons. Apparently, this is where your child finds some kind of activity to take the place of the total lack of extra-curricular activities provided by the school. It also makes it almost impossible for both parents to work as all of these directionless kids must be shepherded to their appointed ‘thing’. That being said, Perri and I accepted the challenge of finding something for her to do. It was here that I was re-acquainted with French bureaucracy. Using the reliable internet, we tracked down the local municipal building purported to deal with athletic clubs and general activities. Upon arrival, a very friendly woman at reception explained we were in the wrong place, as there was another office in another building responsible for sub-adult recreation. “Don’t worry, I have the address and phone number right here,” she may have said to us as she wrote out an address and number.  As we left, Google maps had the audacity to tell us there was no such address, but we would not be denied. After much driving and some arguing, Perri and I came to the shocking conclusion that our helpful municipal employee gave us an address which didn’t exist , at least not in this universe. Ok, so maybe it was a simple typo, and besides, we always had the phone number as a back-up.  The phone number was also wrong.

Fortunately, the next day we were able to go to the local sport and activity club open-house, which allows local teams and groups to recruit for the coming school year.  Ann monopolized the experience, exploring her potential membership in a number of clubs rather than finding something for Perri. The oddest part of the day wasn’t realizing our new home didn’t care much for girl’s soccer; we knew that already.  What rose (raised?) our collective eyebrows was realizing a place unable to support a competitive volleyball club could easily support three separate line dancing clubs (I’m in hell). Apparently, line dancing is synonymous with America, and yes, that is a confederate flag on the table:

Please excuse the quality of the photo: 14 year-old phone-wielding photographer at work.

As for me, neither the quilting club nor the ham radio club caught my fancy. I am waiting patiently for the approval of our membership at the local golf course, which I intend to utilize in the extreme until the rains come.

I was going to go into a lengthy discussion about the fellow working out down by the beach wearing a muscle shirt, a speedo, and running shoes with long brown socks, but I realized I live in what is arguably the most fashionable country in the world. Soon I will learn to appreciate these things rather than question them. Vive le difference!

Next stop: a weekend in Milan  (who loves discount airlines).

Sometimes words are enough

Once the guests went back to wherever they came from, things got quiet around here. I'll admit upfront there have been no amazing or life-changing incidents nor pulitzer prize-winning photos in the last couple of weeks (see previous postings for examples), and this may cause some ... lack of focus in today's blog.
The house becoming quiet reminded me the entire region will also be getting pretty quiet and most of the people I've been seeing since I got here at the beginning of July will be going back to wherever it is they're from. Apparently, this little tourist burg rolls up the carpets at the end of August and goes to sleep. For those of you who know me, you'll know I'm a bit of a high-twitch personality. Things like near-death experiences, which occur daily on the roads around here, or buffets of semi-nudity on the local beach are the kinds of things that keep me alert. If all of the crazy drivers and open-minded women go home, what am I to do?

Speaking of open-minded women, I feel compelled to mention the nice young lady from New Caledonia we met at the tapas bar a couple of weeks ago. Keep in mind there were four of us enjoying some wine and  finger food when this very bubbly young lady, perhaps half my age, asked Ann for her shoes. Sadly, there is no hidden meaning here, she was barefoot and required shoes to go into the bar. A few bottles of wine later and the same young lady was insisting we all take our clothes off for a midnight swim in the ocean. I was all for it, in my head, but outwardly I supported Ann's concern for our position on the maritime food chain. Needless to say, common sense and Canadian puritanism won the day, although the two members of our group with a Y chromosome went home quietly disappointed. I want to be clear about not suggesting Arcachon has become a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. I have yet to read in the local paper of any incidents where people have been trampled by groups of naked revellers rushing to the surf to participate in ritual midnight swims. Although if it were happening, I'm not sure I'd figure it out unless there were photos.

Back to the topic at hand: what is a boy to do? I'm sure all of you yoga enthusiasts, and you know who you are, have been wondering when am I going to find my way back to my happy place. As the saying goes: "the winds of bliss are always blowing, we need only set our sails." In my case, the rigging seems to be all tangled and I haven't figured out how to weigh anchor. I finally found the group who occasionally does yoga on the beach and I was disappointed, to say the least. It appears to be run by a well-meaning retiree who may not have actually taken yoga, nor seen yoga practiced. My best guess is she had a friend explain the basic postures over coffee sometime and she has decided this qualifies her to lead others. Yikes. Now I know you helpful readers are screaming at your monitors for me to grab the bull by something convenient, hopefully the horns, and march down there to lead the class myself. That would be fine, as I expect I could mime my intentions, lacking sufficient French vocabulary. Also, I doubt anyone would miss the point of me pushing the current instructor off her mat and tossing her into the surf. However, this sort of behaviour is frowned upon in most yoga circles. Any advice on this matter would be greatly appreciated. I will continue to search for a local yoga solution that will better suit my needs.

Topic change: wildlife. There appears to be an extensive variety of spiders currently inhabiting our house and surrounding territory. The most visually unsettling species has a disturbing habit of appearing on our bedroom ceiling just moments before I turn off the light, usually directly above the bed. I haven't established whether we are in some sort of spider hotspot or this is typical of the area. For one of our cats, this situation could not be better as she is constantly on the prowl for ways to supplement her diet. Most spiders tend to provide some feline entertainment, however briefly, before being consumed. The other cat has also adjusted to the new culture by catching and eating geckos, much to the delight of our guests. Spiders and geckos, although interesting, can not hold a candle to the cat-sized hedgehog we saw on our way home from dinner last week. I had no idea a hedgehog could reach such proportions. Once again, I was cursing myself for failing to have a camera under circumstances essentially parallel to a yeti sighting. I look forward to the day one of the cats brings a hedgehog home so I may establish some link to reality by providing appropriate photographic evidence. Also, there have been no signs of wild boar although I've been told the forests here are lousy with them. Perhaps I should look into hunting as a hobby. Everybody likes shootin' stuff.

I have decided to forego the story of the fellow on the plane back from Paris who I watched photograph everything from take-off to landing, including the in-flight magazine, on the grounds that a only a thorough description of events could properly convey the kookiness of the situation. Also, I will deny the rumour that the chicken I purchased, and prepared, before roasting for yesterday's dinner magically turned into a duck by the time I had begun carving it. If there is a lesson from this mythical situation, patently not true as I was saying, I would say it is important to read labels before purchasing food. The duck was fabulous.

The Wild, Wild West

Ok. So we have some guests and its time to get started on official hosting duties. What better way to start the Burrage Hotel than taking it cross-country. Road trip #2: Carcassone. For those of you completely ignorant of 12^th century history of the southwest region of France, you’ll have to do your own homework. And, since I am completely ignorant of such things, I used Wikipedia for a complete but probably inaccurate overview. Needless to say, we’re talking about a classic medieval city with walls and towers and more history than you can shake a stick at. It started with the Romans, some Cathars came along, and then the Catholics finished the job, as it were.

As we drove the four hours along the high-speed toll highway, I became extremely conscious of France’s role as one of the big producers of the European union. Other than the obvious hillsides full of grape vines, I saw a cornucopia of agricultural produce: corn, sunflowers, something that might have been peas, something that might have been radishes, some other stuff that was clearly food but just what I couldn’t say, and more corn. The terrain away from Aquitaine becomes more in line with what we think about when we think of France: rolling hills, small towns, and little chateaus with the occasional broken-down castle covering the high ground.

The town of Carcassone is quite pretty as a river rolls through town and the classic castle covers the heights. And, it was hot, but apparently not so hot that anyone but us complained.

So, what does one do when one is in a touristy city? Why, go to the wild west show, of course! Or, in this case, the 12^th century European version of the wild west, with a tiny Hollywood spin. I’m not sure how many times I could sit through a dramatization of a jousting tournament, complete with a ‘Black Night' and swordplay, but once wasn't too many.

I’ll admit it was kind of fun although quite cheesy. Just imagine small town dinner theatre quality acting combined with Calgary Stampede rodeo barrel racing. But who better to deliver the cheese than the French?

As we left the show I stumbled upon a siege engine from possibly the 12^th century, although no one could help me with the name (trebuchet? Catapult?):

We also wandered through the old city, checking out the gift shops containing various period-piece weaponry (e.g. a real Samurai sword for 25 euros) or my choice of scale model dragons. Hmmm….

Also, as the day wore on, and the crowds increased, I began to get a better understanding of how the plague might have been so effective back in the day…

The next morning Ann was able to find even more tourist hot spots within striking distance of Carcossonne.  First stop, the  Lastours castle complex. Again, it was hot, which made the climb that much more rewarding, especially for the disinterested teenage girls. History can be good exercise! 

I didn't think 800 year-old castles had landscapers but there you go...

Fortunately, the more treacherous trails had a system of rope railings which kept you from plunging a few hundred meters to your death. I felt safer.

I realize that my photo journal rarely includes people, and I’m sure many of you are suspicious of the possibility of internet photos being downloaded to cover fictional trips to interesting places. I commend all of you conspiracy theorists, and challenge you to identify the photoshop lines in the following shot:

 I know what you're thinking: "this kid could be anybody", which is true. But most will admit there is a striking resemblance to my daughter. 

We finished the day with a tour of a cave system, blessedly cool after a few hours in the sun. It was quite fascinating, although I'm beginning to think the guy who set up the first caving tourist trap hasn't varied his game very much. I've been in a few and they're all starting to look the same. Stalamites, stalactites, and puddles of water dominate the landscape. It was still pretty cool, and this one has been in the tourist business for almost 200 years.

A quick 4 hour drive home and we find ourselves back in the warm confines of chez Burrage.  Who knows what adventures are lurking in the next couple of weeks?

Holy Cow! This is not the Calgary Stampede!

Content Warning. For all you PETA members out there, you'd best go find something else to do, because I may get into some subject matter which will make you uncomfortable.

 I've been told leaving a post-blog comment has been a problem (Thanks Christina), up until now. I had the security settings set incorrectly although you now are anonymous unless you say who you are in the comment. Perhaps that is best. My apologies to those who were unable to correct my grammar in previous blogs.

Ok, for the rest of you, since all the estrogen in the house was away in Paris for a few days,
I chose to experience a time-honored tradition where a large animal with horns tries to disembowel what can best be described as a bit of a nancy-boy strutting around in his little brother's modern dance outfit. That being said, it was still fascinating.

One of the local towns lies just on the north edge of Basque country and this gives them all the excuse they need to have a five-day drunken extravaganza. I was reminded of the Calgary Stampede as everyone was dressed in classic red-and-white garb, and traditional events of various kinds were held each day. I had no idea how close the parallels ran until I parked my car at 11 a.m. and the guy in the next car plunked a half-finished 1.14 litre bottle of vodka on his hood and began preparing what was obviously not his first drink of the day. Also, I witnessed post-partying carnage on a scale not seen since a certain softball tournament in Whitefish Montana many years ago: there were bodies everywhere. Most  seemed alive although the stench didn't allow me to get close enough to be sure. The reason I arrived early was the promise of a Pamplona-style running of the bulls. True to form, the town had thrown up an extended dog run through the middle of town and ran a bunch of large and angry bulls after a bunch of small and frightened people as shown here:

Oops. That can't be right. Now I remember. They had a preliminary running of the bull-like things, to the great delight of all the small people in the crowd. And then my camera battery died and then the real bulls were unleashed. Rookie photographer mistake. Sorry. Just scale up the image I have here to real bulls and bigger people without smiles and you get the idea. Fortunately, or not if you're squeamish, I was able to get the battery pack charged in time for the real show later in the day.

I wasn't sure what to expect, considering this little town has a single traffic light. I thought, perhaps, I was going to be in for the bullfighting equivalent of seeing a performance of Cats or Les Mis,  done at the local dinner theatre.  I'd say the jury is still out.

I'll give you the reader's digest version of a bullfight. The frisky but clearly pissed-off bull is released into the arena. His horns are very pointy and he looks like he would happily kill anyone stupid enough to step into the ring. Four or five junior matador guys wave their capes at the bull and run him around the arena a bunch of times. Next, in comes a fellow riding a horse that has so much padding one would question whether it is actually a horse under there. The nice man has a long pointy stick, which he  does his best to jam into the meaty bits behind the bull's head as the bull tries to turn his mount into steak tartare. As a side note, I don't think I'll be ordering the steak tartare here as we weren't able to get a clear answer as to what happens to both the bull and the horse after the event. The horse is blindfolded, which makes sense because although horses aren't tremendously clever creatures, they wouldn't willingly do this:

The next bit is what I deemed to be the job of the guy who draws the short straw that day. He has to jab two much shorter pointy sticks into the shoulders of the bull, who is by now really angry. No horse, no cape, all they have are quick feet.

These guys do their best with the short pointy sticks, which I have been told are tipped with a sedative to make the bull a bit goofy (where's the sport in that, I ask you?). Then, the shiniest guy of all, the matador, comes in to 'finish the job'.

We had good seats, close enough to get some dirt flung in our faces when a bull made a quick turn. At least, I hope it was dirt.  Being up close afforded me an opportunity to see just how cosy the matador and the bull could get.  I'll admit, there were times when I was quite impressed with how they hung it out there.

These guys were pretty good, especially when you consider they're wearing slippers while they work.

 Generally speaking, the bull loses. I have to admit there where times where I was looking for an atypical finish. I have also read that on rare occasions the fans can petition for a particularly fiesty bull to spared. Sadly, that was not to be on this night. Final Score: Matadors 6 - bulls 0, with one draw (to be explained later).

Between bulls, the local version of the Zamboni would appear:

Now, before you get too disappointed in the somewhat dull version of events I have described, there were a few good moments for the bulls. One bull knocked the horse guy on his butt and in the confusion to keep the horse from being damaged, one daring but not too clever individual jumped into the fray to assist. I have to ask, "does this seem like a good idea to you?":

As far as the draw goes, one bull slammed his head into the boards in his haste to decapitate on of the junior matadors. He rang his own bell so hard they let him go. I hope he is experiencing early retirement with full benefits, if you know what I mean.

I will not be turning this blog into a forum for discussing the ethical complexities of bullfighting. I've seen one now and won't be back for seconds. I've left out many pictures that suggest a somewhat more gruesome event than the one I've described. I've also left out descriptions of the numerous botched 'finishes' which quickly reminded me of dinner theatre, Tim Burton style. We were up close, so I didn't miss a thing. On the bright side, as I drove home, I only experienced the usual number of tendencies towards butchering strangers, so the event seems to have no lingering effects. Still, not for the faint of heart.

Next: guests, and how to get rid of them.