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.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Monday, 15 August 2011
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 12th 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 12th 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 12th 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:
Sunday, 7 August 2011
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.
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.
Next: guests, and how to get rid of them.
Saturday, 30 July 2011
Baguettes Bite Back
Today I cut myself on a baguette. I was told to be careful about the food when traveling abroad, but I didn't think it extended to baked goods. That being said, it took me twenty minutes to staunch the bleeding from a gash in my lower lip. For those of you who have seen me eat, and are wondering why I don't cut myself at every sitting, I will surprise you by saying this doesn't happen very often. Also, I was able to recover enough to dispatch said baguette in the traditional fashion. Thank you for your concern.
Now that the weather is approaching what I've been told is the norm (high 20's celsius), Ann has set high expectations in terms of beach attendance. The local beach is pretty sedate in terms of surf so one must wander further afield to get waves exciting enough to break your neck. And we all know it's no fun if the 'potential death' setting isn't at moderate or higher. Fortunately, Biscarosse plage would dial in at about 8 on a good day so that's where we headed after work yesterday. Don't be confused. I meant after Ann's work. Perri and I went to the 'You Pick 'Em' blueberry farm in the afternoon. I had no idea blueberries could grow so plentifully, and some of these looked like concorde grapes. Sadly, the season is closing this weekend, so we got 3 kilos. Coincidentally, Satan's baguette mentioned above was peanut butter and fresh blueberries.
After consuming our body weight in blueberries, and filling the container, we went on to the beach to meet Ann.
This isn't considered busy as you can still see some free sand. Granted, it was already 6 p.m..
Around 7 we decided to look for some dinner. At the beach, apparently, civilized people have snackies around 4:30, then retire to the condo around 7 to clean up and have a few aperitifs, and then go for supper (no earlier than 8). At least it wasn't hard to get a table, although they may have had to call the cooks to come in early.
The after dinner stroll through town drew us to the town square, where something momentous was occurring...
Quite a crowd was gathered to watch a competition, which, at first glance, and perhaps a second and third glance, was difficult to determine. Only after staying for a few minutes did I realize this was the world pinecone tossing event. There were trophies of considerable size, as well as certificates legitimizing the event. There may possibly be a number of unsanctioned pinecone tossing competitions along this coast, and, typically, the French like to keep things above board. Again, my earlier comments on the quality of local television will explain why there was a goodly number of fans.
Today, in keeping with Ann's beach quota, we biked 7 km's down to the Dune du Pyla - the biggest gob of beach sand this side of the Sahara . Sixty million cubic meters gets you this...
At over 100 meters high, 500 meters wide, and almost 3 km's long, she's a brute! Ann tells me there's a legitimate geological reason for its existence but I got sleepy when she tried to explain. Geology tends to affect most people that way (that should encourage some comments). The dune goes right down to the water so we had a nice lunch at the beach, in spite of the dearth of nudity.
Now that the weather is approaching what I've been told is the norm (high 20's celsius), Ann has set high expectations in terms of beach attendance. The local beach is pretty sedate in terms of surf so one must wander further afield to get waves exciting enough to break your neck. And we all know it's no fun if the 'potential death' setting isn't at moderate or higher. Fortunately, Biscarosse plage would dial in at about 8 on a good day so that's where we headed after work yesterday. Don't be confused. I meant after Ann's work. Perri and I went to the 'You Pick 'Em' blueberry farm in the afternoon. I had no idea blueberries could grow so plentifully, and some of these looked like concorde grapes. Sadly, the season is closing this weekend, so we got 3 kilos. Coincidentally, Satan's baguette mentioned above was peanut butter and fresh blueberries.
After consuming our body weight in blueberries, and filling the container, we went on to the beach to meet Ann.
Around 7 we decided to look for some dinner. At the beach, apparently, civilized people have snackies around 4:30, then retire to the condo around 7 to clean up and have a few aperitifs, and then go for supper (no earlier than 8). At least it wasn't hard to get a table, although they may have had to call the cooks to come in early.
The after dinner stroll through town drew us to the town square, where something momentous was occurring...
Quite a crowd was gathered to watch a competition, which, at first glance, and perhaps a second and third glance, was difficult to determine. Only after staying for a few minutes did I realize this was the world pinecone tossing event. There were trophies of considerable size, as well as certificates legitimizing the event. There may possibly be a number of unsanctioned pinecone tossing competitions along this coast, and, typically, the French like to keep things above board. Again, my earlier comments on the quality of local television will explain why there was a goodly number of fans.
Today, in keeping with Ann's beach quota, we biked 7 km's down to the Dune du Pyla - the biggest gob of beach sand this side of the Sahara . Sixty million cubic meters gets you this...
At over 100 meters high, 500 meters wide, and almost 3 km's long, she's a brute! Ann tells me there's a legitimate geological reason for its existence but I got sleepy when she tried to explain. Geology tends to affect most people that way (that should encourage some comments). The dune goes right down to the water so we had a nice lunch at the beach, in spite of the dearth of nudity.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
And now the hard part - living.
So, three weeks in and I'm getting the feeling that: "Yes, I could get used to this. After all, it's not so different from Calgary." I will learn not to set myself up for these fate-tempters in the future. Needless to say, Ann and I decided to go for a nice walk along the beach yesterday. Lo and behold, the tide was going out with a vengeance. Locally, this means the huge sand spit just offshore becomes visible and accessible for non-swimmers. So Ann and I decided to wander along to see what we could see at low tide and began to understand the occasional bag of something being carried back to shore contained clams. Yummy. I like fresh clams fried up in butter and garlic served on a nice fresh baguette as much as the next person. Sure enough, we realized the next time we came for a walk at low tide would require a small digging device and a plastic bag. Then things got interesting. Ann remarked "Oh. That's sad. A garbage bag washed up on shore". And, I'll admit, being from Saskatchewan, and not a marine biologist (not even a pretend one to impress women), it looked to me a bit like a garbage bag. However, as we got closer it became obvious that this particular garbage bag was alive, and squishy, and, and, I'm not really sure what else. I regret not having my camera this once as a picture might have helped. That being said, I know I'm not in Kansas anymore when there is something about the size of a shoebox sitting in front of me that defies definition (a mutant sea cucumber?). In Canada, at least the part I'm familiar with, anything that big or bigger, when alive, can usually be identified within a moment or two. I guess I shouldn't get too comfortable just yet. A trip to the local supermarket seafood section helped secure that feeling as there were many unidentifiable objects available to purchase and consume.
I threw in this picture because we've been riding past it each day on the way to Perri's sailing school. It made kind of a nice shot but doesn't represent any historically significant church (as far as I know). Also, by French standards, it's really quite new. We can here the bells when they chime on the half hour, if we're sitting out front.
And, speaking of sailing school. We browbeat Perri into attending for a week so she'd stop watching old tv episodes of 'The Office' on the internet. Sadly, the classes were all full, but we put her on the alternate list. Once the weather forecast for the week hit the local papers, the phone rang immediately. Apparently, people on vacation aren't interested in having their kids learn to sail in hurricane conditions. Well in Canada, we don't care how dangerous it is for our kids. True to form, the wind was howling through the rigging on the boats as I dropped Perri off. It did not go unnoticed by Perri that every kid was wearing a wet suit, except her. Luckily, the weather improved as the week wore on (she still got a wet suit).
She'll be the one standing up on the catamaran approaching shore.
The weather is getting more summery with every passing day, although I've been impressed with French's 'c'est la vie' attitude toward the weather. Even on the foulest rainy days, you could always find families outside doing... stuff. It wasn't until after we finally got the local cable feed that I began to understand. The television here is so awful that nothing short of a real hurricane would encourage anyone to stay inside and watch. I think we have 120 channels - the basic cable feed - and, with the exception of the occasional sporting event, nothing to my tastes. To be fair, I haven't checked out late night programming to confirm rumours of less family-friendly viewing. Stay tuned, I may devote an entire commentary should I find something interesting.
I have alluded to car-hunting expeditions: some successful, some not. The following is a representation of our success:
I know! I thought the hood ornament was the Ferrari thing too. But after further investigation and a re-examination of the list price, I remembered we'd been to a Peugeot dealership. Still, I'm happy with it and the fuel consumption is unbelievable. Also, never let it be said the French are inefficient. Our salesguy knew we would be by to pick up the car at 2:00 p.m. sharp. Perri and I arrived a little past 2:30 and the car was ready promptly at ten past 5. Fortunately I knew there was no way it was going to be ready to go at the appointed time, so Perri and I were able to do some exploring on our bikes while we waited. We were able to find the local manifestation of blackberries, growing in volume along one of the little country roads nearby. In a few weeks, we will return with buckets.
We had also considered a used Peugeot crossover that had been used by its previous owner as a giant ashtray. Sadly, after a serious steam cleaning, the vehicle now smelled like an industrial cleaning agent facility... which had been used as a giant ashtray. Plan B was immediately put into effect and thus we are the proud owners of another brand new Peugeot 3008, which will be ready to go perhaps next week, or certainly the week after that.
As the weather is now cooperating, I expect to give our shiny new kayak a try this weekend, in spite of the treacherous currents awaiting me just off shore. This may be the last post on this blog. Also, Perri and I will be checking out the "U pick 'em" blueberry place tomorrow. Everybody loves blueberries!
I threw in this picture because we've been riding past it each day on the way to Perri's sailing school. It made kind of a nice shot but doesn't represent any historically significant church (as far as I know). Also, by French standards, it's really quite new. We can here the bells when they chime on the half hour, if we're sitting out front.
And, speaking of sailing school. We browbeat Perri into attending for a week so she'd stop watching old tv episodes of 'The Office' on the internet. Sadly, the classes were all full, but we put her on the alternate list. Once the weather forecast for the week hit the local papers, the phone rang immediately. Apparently, people on vacation aren't interested in having their kids learn to sail in hurricane conditions. Well in Canada, we don't care how dangerous it is for our kids. True to form, the wind was howling through the rigging on the boats as I dropped Perri off. It did not go unnoticed by Perri that every kid was wearing a wet suit, except her. Luckily, the weather improved as the week wore on (she still got a wet suit).
The weather is getting more summery with every passing day, although I've been impressed with French's 'c'est la vie' attitude toward the weather. Even on the foulest rainy days, you could always find families outside doing... stuff. It wasn't until after we finally got the local cable feed that I began to understand. The television here is so awful that nothing short of a real hurricane would encourage anyone to stay inside and watch. I think we have 120 channels - the basic cable feed - and, with the exception of the occasional sporting event, nothing to my tastes. To be fair, I haven't checked out late night programming to confirm rumours of less family-friendly viewing. Stay tuned, I may devote an entire commentary should I find something interesting.
I have alluded to car-hunting expeditions: some successful, some not. The following is a representation of our success:
We had also considered a used Peugeot crossover that had been used by its previous owner as a giant ashtray. Sadly, after a serious steam cleaning, the vehicle now smelled like an industrial cleaning agent facility... which had been used as a giant ashtray. Plan B was immediately put into effect and thus we are the proud owners of another brand new Peugeot 3008, which will be ready to go perhaps next week, or certainly the week after that.
As the weather is now cooperating, I expect to give our shiny new kayak a try this weekend, in spite of the treacherous currents awaiting me just off shore. This may be the last post on this blog. Also, Perri and I will be checking out the "U pick 'em" blueberry place tomorrow. Everybody loves blueberries!
Sunday, 24 July 2011
The Royal Visit.
I may have tempted fate in my first blog when I asked "What could go wrong?" when referring to leaving a 14 year-old in the hands of Air Canada. The important thing is she made it, eventually.
For those of you parents who decide to release your children into the wild, as it were, I have a few words of advice:
1. Always wait at the airport until the flight leaves the ground. Perri's flight actually got to the 'taxiing to take off' point before conking out.
2. Be sure to book summer flights out of Calgary in the morning. Perri's second-try flight (same day), this time to Frankfurt rather than Montreal, was delayed a few hours due to thunderstorms, thereby destroying any hope of making connecting flights.
3. This is the important one - always be sure the cell phone you've given to your child continues to work throughout the course of their trip. I accidentally had the phone plan cancelled half way through Perri's adventure, so she relied on her wits when she landed in Frankfurt to a dead phone. Thanks Dad.
However, I give her all the credit in world for negotiating the dangerous waters of airline customer service and living to tell the tale. I'll admit I may not have been able to achieve the same level of success under the same circumstances. In my version, the Frankfurt airport security officials wrestle me to the ground after I take a swing at the customer service staff. And, as a bonus, her bags arrived the next day at our front door. Pretty good considering she made no attempt to retrieve her bags at any stage of her trip.
OK. So now we're all here and adjusting well...
Perri has a way to maximize the effectiveness of the cats on a cool day. It can be difficult to know if a teenager has gotten over any jet lag issues as sleeping for extended stretches is time zone inspecific. I'm guessing Perri has recovered but there's no way to be sure.
I did drag her off to the market yesterday where she was required to get her own toaster-shaped bread. Apparently baguettes don't lend themselves to being toasted in a traditional toaster.
Don't be fooled. I'll have you believe we get all our food this way. And to be clear, a person could rely on the little farmer's markets for their groceries, if they didn't mind the hassle of speaking French every time they wanted something. However ... shortly after we wandered through the market here, we went to the giant grocery store a few blocks away (think Great Canadian Superstore with French subtitles).
Needless to say, we are settling in with a full compliment of family members. Now for the next challenge: guests. For those of you considering dropping by, I'll advise you to book early to avoid disappointment.
1. Always wait at the airport until the flight leaves the ground. Perri's flight actually got to the 'taxiing to take off' point before conking out.
2. Be sure to book summer flights out of Calgary in the morning. Perri's second-try flight (same day), this time to Frankfurt rather than Montreal, was delayed a few hours due to thunderstorms, thereby destroying any hope of making connecting flights.
3. This is the important one - always be sure the cell phone you've given to your child continues to work throughout the course of their trip. I accidentally had the phone plan cancelled half way through Perri's adventure, so she relied on her wits when she landed in Frankfurt to a dead phone. Thanks Dad.
However, I give her all the credit in world for negotiating the dangerous waters of airline customer service and living to tell the tale. I'll admit I may not have been able to achieve the same level of success under the same circumstances. In my version, the Frankfurt airport security officials wrestle me to the ground after I take a swing at the customer service staff. And, as a bonus, her bags arrived the next day at our front door. Pretty good considering she made no attempt to retrieve her bags at any stage of her trip.
OK. So now we're all here and adjusting well...
Perri has a way to maximize the effectiveness of the cats on a cool day. It can be difficult to know if a teenager has gotten over any jet lag issues as sleeping for extended stretches is time zone inspecific. I'm guessing Perri has recovered but there's no way to be sure.
I did drag her off to the market yesterday where she was required to get her own toaster-shaped bread. Apparently baguettes don't lend themselves to being toasted in a traditional toaster.
Needless to say, we are settling in with a full compliment of family members. Now for the next challenge: guests. For those of you considering dropping by, I'll advise you to book early to avoid disappointment.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Language: it separates us from the chimps
I've been dodging the language question up until now. How is my French language adjustment coming along? Hmmmm... Short answer: ok. Long answer: Well, it's like I pass through each day in a little bubble where all intelligent meaning is filtered out. Little things like driving, or shopping for groceries take longer as I try to interpret labels, which is what any sane person would expect. However, the real fun starts at the till. For example, when my backpack set off the alarm at the big grocery store yesterday, with only twenty people in line behind me, I was pretty sure I was in for a difficult experience. When the 16 year-old cashier asked me what I thought was "could you take off all of your clothes?" and later turned out to be "could you take your backpack through the security sensor one more time?", I seriously considered dropping everything, running for the door, driving to the beach, and drowning in a vane attempt to swim to England. Then today, after I thought I had all of the obvious cashier questions sorted out, I get another "blah blah blah blah?" after handing over a crisp 20 euro bill. Is it a counterfeit? Do they not accept 20 euro bills on Tuesdays? Don't laugh, in France this could be a union protest thing. Needless to say, I'm baffled, as is the cashier after I lock up after being asked if I have 35 cents to make the change more simple. I don't expect to be invited into any political or philisophical discussions with my French neighbors any time soon.
Yesterday I took a walk along the beach when the weather conditions would be politely described as blustery. Not surprisingly, the place was quite peaceful: not a screaming baby in sight. And, as the pictures attest: no one in sight.
This walkway is usually packed and even on bad days there are usually at least a few crazy, but determined vacationers intent on making the most of their beach holiday. After walking down the pathway for a while, I finally came upon one guy who understood how to take advantage of the serenity, such as it was.
I imagined his large extended family jammed into the smallest rv you've ever seen arguing over when grandpa was coming back so they could all go to the local McDonalds. Don't ask me why, but McDonalds here is extremely popular. Perhaps the local populace craves a minimum level of toxicity after being exposed to too much unprocessed food.
Tomorrow I get a royal visit of my own as the reigning princess of the household arrives. Perri unwittingly holds the key to the success of the whole venture in her delicate little hands. Who knew we would bet the farm, as it were, on the ability of a 14 year-old to adapt?
Yesterday I took a walk along the beach when the weather conditions would be politely described as blustery. Not surprisingly, the place was quite peaceful: not a screaming baby in sight. And, as the pictures attest: no one in sight.
Tomorrow I get a royal visit of my own as the reigning princess of the household arrives. Perri unwittingly holds the key to the success of the whole venture in her delicate little hands. Who knew we would bet the farm, as it were, on the ability of a 14 year-old to adapt?
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