T. Young, artist and then some

Spanish Nights and Pigs Ears

2012-01-24T23:27:00.002-05:00

September 15, 2011
We had just left the Via Grande Metro stop when the incident occurred. It was a crowded car, and we were clutching the upright rails as the car lurched through the vast labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city. In the last car where we were a muscular young man of about two meters tall and ninety kilos pushed his way brusquely through the car, the smell of alcohol on his breath. His face was swarthy, and he was muttering something. Claudette said he was demanding money. As he moved to the back of the car, I said to Claudette. "Let's get outta here." She gave me a quizzical look as I pried her hand from the rail and led her forward. "But..." she started to say.

"Hey," I said," nothing good ever happens when drunks start making demands." As I looked over her shoulder the big guy was accosting a young black man demanding money in a loud voice. I pulled Claudette forward as she said, "He has the poor guy down on the floor hitting him. "

"Better him than us," I say as the train stops. We hurriedly exit the metro and notice a security guard waiting. He is much smaller that the men that are fighting and we don't wait around to see the outcome of the confrontation but exit to Plaza Mayor into the festivities of Madrid after dark.

Most of the day had been spent in museums and now we were ready for some relaxing "wander around" time. According to the guidebook there was a place nearby where one of the local delicacies, fried pigs ears, were available. I know, I know, this sounds a bit strange, but when in Spain... The Metro stop was directly in front of one of our favorite bakeries but at nine o'clock at night we wanted something different. The plaza was crowded with people out for the evening, not particularly going anywhere in particular, just strolling about. The street vendors had their goods spread out on bed sheets on the ground, sunglasses, leather goods and other smaller items for sale. It appears that the vendor can make a hasty escape if need be by grabbing the corners of the sheet and running. Probably some of the merchandise has changed ownership recently without exchange of currency. There is also some sort of demonstration or rally of about a hundred people going on. We don't get involved. We are accustomed to this sort of thing and have seen it in other European cities. There always seems to be a group protesting or demonstrating. Street entertainers abound on the plaza as well as the side streets. There are opera singers, string quartets, guitarists, folk dancers and a man playing water filled glasses! We enjoy the festive atmosphere but can't find the restaurant which sells the fried pigs ears. We enjoy a meal of tapas with jamon, the cured Spanish ham. Later, we had our desert of chocolate and churros. Churros are fried extruded bread dough that you eat after dipping in small cups of extremely thick hot chocolate. This could be my desert of choice...at least in Spain.

It had been an exhausting day of museums, sightseeing and wandering around. Oh, yes, and a fight on the metro too. Time to head for our hotel, only two blocks from Plaza Mayor. Did I mention that Plaza Mayor is mile zero for all roads in Spain?

Bahamian Holiday

2012-01-20T16:54:00.001-05:00

Wednesday, January 12, 2012--We stepped off the MV Fantasy at about 9:30 AM for a day of discovery on New Providence Island. As we walked down the gangway there was a Norwegian cruise ship berthing across from us. The other three berths were empty.

No passport is required here. As we strode toward morning and the colorful Festival Place Welcome Center building with the 855 foot long white cruise ship behind us at Prince George Wharf it was a warm day with cloudless sky. We stopped in the Welcome Center long enough to get a map of the downtown Nassau area. Almost immediately we sensed the friendliness of the Bahamians. Every face seemed to have a smile on

it with a cherry "Hello" or "Good morning".

Across Wooden Rogers Walk was Ransom Square. The park had the traditional park benches and the aged men on the benches. Amongst the towering palms was a bust of Sir Milo Houghton Butler, the first Governor-General of the independent Bahamas. We crossed busy Bay Street to Parliament Square. The building is of Greek Revival architecture and is what must be the most popular color in the Bahamas, pink. A statue of a young Queen Victoria adorns the front of the building but has little resemblance to Emily Blunt. The two cannon with iron carriages flanking the statue are very similar to those at Edinburgh castle in Scotland. A pretty girl of about ten-years-old was pretending to fire one of the cannon, and I snapped her picture.

We continued our walk up Parliament Street past the Supreme Court Building and the Garden of Remembrance. On the corner of Parliament Street and Shirley Street stands the Nassau Public Library and Museum. It is the oldest building on Parliament Square, built in 1798 as a jail and later converted. It's a very interesting building of octagonal shape. We turned left on Shirley Street, facing the morning sun, as we sought the Queen's Staircase and Fort Fincastle. At the corner of Elizabeth and Shirley we turned right and began the climb up Bennet's Hill past some construction projects and the hospital. The construction workers, like everyone else, were friendly. The street traffic was quite heavy, and pedestrians did not always have the right of way. I believe they would hit you. You drive on the left here, but there are many left-hand-drive cars.

Near the summit, after passing the hospital, we were somewhat bewildered to find no signage to the Queen's Staircase, a noted tourist attraction. However, a smiling Bahamian woman sensed our plight and pointed us in the right direction. She referred to it as the "66 steps" not the Queen's Staircase. These stone steps were cut from the limestone in this quarry in the late 1700's by slaves. They were later renamed The Queen's Staircase in honor of Queen Victoria. Like many old structures, many stories are told about their origins, and to prove their accuracy is sometimes futile. This was a delightful place with cool temperatures from the shade of trees and the quarry walls. There are vendors here selling all sorts of souvenirs, and Claudette bargained for a straw hat. I've been trying to teach her not to pay the asked price, and I think my coaching is paying off. She bargained five dollars off the asked price. At the top of the stairs was a chatty man in a wheelchair. I expected him to ask for a hand-out, but he did not. The Bahamas are full of surprises. The top of this hill is the highest point on New Providence Island. Is there a better place for a fort? I don't think so. From here you get a breathtaking view of the island and the turquoise sea beyond. By now there were four cruise ships tied up in the harbor, and about ten thousand people would be coming ashore. I suggested to Claudette that we finish our excursion soon before this island got too crowded.

On top of Bennet's Hill is the most interesting fort I've ever seen, Fort Fincastle. Built of stone in 1794, it is semicircular with a triangular structure on the flat side of the semicircle. The cannon are mounted on the curved walls. These cannon aren't the originals but were placed here in the 19th century. I find the cannon unique in that they are on iron carriages which sit on tracks to allow recoil. The entire track and cannon can be pivoted. This allows for full coverage of the city of Nassau as well as Paradise Island, formally known as Hog Island. The cannon are at least six feet off the ground which makes me ponder how they were loaded and fired. But, that pondering is food for another blog. The fort gets its name from once governor Lord Dunmore, Viscount Fincastle. The admission is only one dollar. US currency is readily accepted in the Bahamas. Inside the fort are guides who work for tips. They aren't pushy, they simply state that they earn their livelihood this way. The fort soon fills up with tourists which signals time for us to leave.

We took a dirt foot path from the front of the fort past two sleeping dogs to the street below. There is a fruit stand near an abandoned car with tasty appearing citrus, but we were without small domination bills, so we didn't shop. We found ourselves on Charlotte Street and continued down the hill to Bay Street. We were ready for some shopping and a mid-morning snack. The street seems to be all jewelry shops and souvenir shops with few restaurants. Eventually we found Skans at the corner of Bay and Market Range. It seemed to be a great time for a spot of tea. To my surprise hot tea is not readily available. I think perhaps the tourist trade has destroyed a bit of English tradition. But what I really wanted were some conch fritters. I have memories of those in Key West some years back. According to the menu they are a lunch dish, but our waitress said the cook could probably make some for me before the lunch hour. Claudette chose the conch burger, and we shared. They were great, especially the fritters with slightly spicy dipping sauce. We had just finished our meal when the waitress said, "Look out into the street!" We rushed onto the sidewalk to see what was going on. It seems the court was going into session, and the justices walk down the street to the Supreme Court building. There must have been over a hundred of these elegant Bahamians in their black robes with their powdered wigs on their heads.

Since we were right next door to the Straw Market we went inside to see what was for sale. There were souvenirs galore: T-shirts, hats, sun visors, et cetera. There was one thing of interest though: wood carvers. They are magicians with primitive tools. A chunk of wood complete with bark, a chisel, and a short length of tree branch to use as a hammer is all they use to produce beautiful wooden sculptures. By this time it had become extremely crowded, so we boarded our huge white ocean going steed for safe refuge.

The next day found us watching the ships enter and leave Freeport harbor while sitting at a table under a palm tree. We were munching the ubiquitous conch fritters and discussing the merits of the various brands of native beer. While there I did have the opportunity to try my hand at the conch trumpet. I could not find one that made a sound, but the young man with dreadlocks and a Bob Marley t-shirt could.

I should like to return to the Bahamas some time to get to know some of the islanders and perhaps spend a few days without seeing a white face.

The Dark Continent

2011-12-31T11:15:00.000-05:00

I had always wanted to go to Africa. Since childhood those visions of steamy jungles or desert sands have kept my interest. When I finally got there, the Immigration Officials would not let me enter the country of Morocco. My trusted travel mate and I had not had our passports checked while on board the ferry from Tarifa, Spain. How were we supposed to know this? Some sort of international telepathy, perhaps. We quickly scrambled back aboard the ship to find a disgruntle and rude immigration agent. He was quite rude and I had to remind Claudette that some sort of verbal rebuttal from us would be futile, if not detrimental to our cause. I have always revered the man with the star regardless of the situation and fully realized that this sloven, rude, disgruntle little man could refuse us entry into his country.

When we final got ashore a bearded little man in a robe and brimless hat approached us and asked if we were going on the tour and if we were English. We answered yes to both questions. We were used to being asked if we were English since we were frequently identified by the language we spoke. He said. "Good! Good! and led us to a small Mercedes van obviously loaded with tourists. We dutifully climbed aboard and a young man in a Yankee's baseball cap introduced himself as Ahmed. There were nine of us on the mini-bus plus the driver and Ahmed. He spoke to the driver in Arabic and the mini-bus grudgingly started to move. Arabic is the major language in Morocco followed by French, Spanish and then English.

No one spoke French on our bus but there were five English speakers: Claudette and me, two recent college graduates, and a mechanic from Wales. The other four spoke Spanish. As we bounced along a rather brisk clip, Ahmed told us about his country and city. Tangier has over one million people, is the second largest city in Morocco and is building new hotels and modernizing its harbor to attract more tourists. The driver brought the mini-van to a screeching half beside an open area between some buildings and Ahmed exclaimed , "Everybody, camel ride!"

Here we saw a bearded man in a t-shirt and baseball cap with two camels. He was offering camel rides for one euro. I thought I wanted to do this, but after I saw that there was nothing to hold onto, I reneged. A few of the people did. One of the camels was very cantankerous. Our next stop was the bazaar. Ahmet was dressed in western style so he was easy to follow. Some of the men were in the robes and brimless hads while others were in western dress. We see very few women in less that ankle length skirts and usually with headwear such as a kerchief. The typical long robe with hood and veil is common. However, when only the face or eyes are visible, it is usually well made-up. Some are quite beautiful particularly with "raccoon" eyes. Also, some of the long dresses were of brilliant solid colors and are worn a few sizes too small. The streets were very narrow and crowded with people, push carts and frequent motorbikes or scooters but no donkeys or camels. I made sure everything of value was in my money belt. Our guide was quick to point out that although Morocco was a Muslim country we could readily see Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish houses of worship. As we walked by the tiny stalls selling all sorts of merchandise and food stuffs, I could not help but remember some scenes from "The Raiders of the Lost Ark". Thankfully I did not see a very large man dressed in black with a scimatar! I had thought the streets in the medieval Europe were narrow, but they were wide compared to these. In some places we walked single file. Vendors are constantly tugging at your elbow to buy their wares, usually jewelry of sunglasses They love to bicker about the price. But if you complete ignore them and never make eye contact they will leave you alone. However, if you offer any kind of encouragement they will stick like glue until you buy something or leave the country. We visited one shop in which native handicrafts were sold, beautiful leather work and ceramics. In one shop I bought some spices for a barbecue rub. But the creme de la creme of things for sale were the rugs. They showed us many beautiful ones that were hand made with intricate colorful designs. If I had had the extra money I probably would have bought one. And, of course, they had no flying carpet. By the way, they accept any kind of currency in Tangier. There is the probability that you could use Monopoly money, maybe? We ate a meal at a local restaurant and it was good, cous-cous topped with vegetables and mystery meat. The music was very interesting played by musicians in white robes and red fezzes. As we walked through the bazaar we could hear the call to prayer from the mosque, "Ashhadu an la ilaha ills Allah..."

Our three hour tour was over. Unlike Gilligan we did not have Mary Ann, Ginger and the Professor but did have two cute college girls and Welsh mechanic. I should like to return to Tangier with more time or maybe instead to Egypt. I understand that there aren't many tourists there now due to political unrest.

A Look Into The Past

2011-12-28T16:50:00.000-05:00

It was Sunday, September 17, 2011, we were

in Madrid, and I was fortunate enough to visit Naval Museo, the Spanish Naval Museum, located on a quiet street a few blocks from Spain's famous Prado, one of the world's greatest art museums. The naval museum is operated by the Spanish Navy, and you must go through security screening before entering the upstairs exhibits. Lodged in 24 rooms, the museum traces Spanish maritime history from the fifteenth century until the present. It houses some great "guy stuff" and my dear wife and travel mate indulged my musings. While the exhibits are too numerous to mention, I will try to give a brief account of what we saw. We surveyed the art and artifacts in chronological order which I believe is best.

One of the many ship models.

There are paintings galore; some of them wall-size, about twelve feet by twenty feet and larger. They depict various ships as well as famous battles and famous events. One wall has portraits of naval heroes exclusively. Large maps and charts also abound. The most famous is a map painted on leather by Jaun de la Cosa, a cartographer during the time of Columbus. Actually de la Cosa made seven voyages to the new world, three of them with Columbus. There are also hundreds of model ships, some quite small, crafted by sailors at sea. Others are ten feet long, and many have immaculate detail. One of my favorites is a model of the United States battleship USS Maine. You will recall it was sunk in Havana Harbor, a prelude to the Spanish-American War. The models depict the transition from sail to steam as a means of locomotion for watercraft. Some weapons depicted are rifles and pistols, not only of Spanish origin but other countries as well. Some of the long guns of the north Africans were ornately decorated. The inlaid stocks of fifteenth century pistols were quite elaborately inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semi-precious stones. Of course there are cannon, quite a few cannon. One display depicts a cannon and the cannoneer's hammock hung within a few feet of his gun. I would be remiss if I did not mention the fine collection of figureheads mounted high on one wall overlooking one of the rooms full of models. The carved wooden figures graced the prows of the ships of the great Spanish Armada was well as merchant ships. There is a section of a full scale model of a mast of one of the great sailing ships. It gives you an idea of the size of these great vessels. And paintings illustrate the great ships at sea.

We found this to be a great place to visit in Madrid. You could almost feel as though you were a part of the age of discovery. Indeed, the great Spanish missions of the American southwest would not have been except for some of the men whose portraits adorn these walls. Mel Fisher would never had found the sunken galleon, Atocha, had the Spaniards had not built those great ships to bring back the treasures of the Americas. And the stories and myths of the pirates of the Caribbean would not exist with no treasure laden galleons to plunder. I would have never camped with the Boy Scouts in the Horspasture area of Pickens County, SC, had the Cherokee Indians not stolen Spanish horses and hidden them there. Yes, we could feel the connection to history there and the Spanish Navy does a great job of presenting it.

Mock-up of gun port

Navigation Instrument

Mock-up of captains cabin

Around the Old English District

2011-12-22T21:40:00.000-05:00

Do you remember “The Saint”? The British television series aired between 1962 and 1969 and starred Roger Moore prior to his run as 007. The show had an interesting title sequence in which there was and animated stick figure with a halo. Recently, I saw that figure again but not on TV, but as a tattoo. It was on the forearm of the man handing me his business card. He was about six feet tall and a two hundred pounds with a mustache and three day old beard. The beard and mustache were flecked with gray and a battered baseball cap was pulled down low but his sparkling blue eyes were visible. I detected the sound of the British Isles in his voice as he spoke and I queried him about his homeland. “Twenty-seven years I’ve been here, off and on,” he said, “but born south of London.”

“Doing this?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he said, “I’ve only been doing this about four years. I was a pipeline welder in Canada as well as here”

We talked a bit about the similarities in the two occupations, welding and making pottery, such as eye-hand coordination. He showed be his pieces for sale and I was curious about the almost exclusive use of earth tones. He said he hadn't notice his use af earth tones but the colors felt "right". We talked about how it could be very difficult to create the primitive look. I mentioned that Picaso had once said that it had taken him a lifetime to learn to paint as a child. We exchanged notes on our visits to the Louvre, the Prado, and the Tate. He did beautiful work and I did buy a piece, a vase with an oriental motif before saying “good-bye” to the Saintly Potter at The Rock Hill Pottery Center in the old Post Office and Courthouse building.

There was more to see in Rock Hill, this town of 71,000 plus , a short distance from the Charlotte, NC, metropolitan area. Like many small towns Rock hill has undergone a local facelift in the downtown area. There are new store fronts and interesting shops, restaurants and galleries. There is also a telephone museum, the Comporium Museum. It's right off main street and offers an interesting look into telephone communications from the early 1900's to the present. Many antique telephones are on display as well as a look at behind the scenes equipment usually never seen by the public. There are a lot of "hands-on" displays which are great fun as well as instructional. The technical displays were right up my ally but what really caught my attention was the truck. It was an 1927 Mack truck used for setting telephone poles and pulling wire and cable. It had solid rubber tires and originally had gas headlights. Top speed on this truck was 11mph, so it took over twenty hours to drive it from Atlanta to Rock Hill. This truck was in service until the 1970's and was in the television mini-series, Chiefs, filmed in nearby Chester during the early 1980's. A friendly helpful guide made this visit to the Comporium Telephone very enjoyable.

We had a bit of lunch at an"Irish" pub. The chips with my fish and chips were potato chips! There is a first time for everything. The fish was no north Atlantic cod either, but was good. It's funny how a Guiness can take the edge off any disappointment.

Our next stop was a natural history museum, The Museum of York County. I had visited the museum long ago but Claudette hadn't been there. It's really nice with different displays of mounted specimens of animals and plants. There is also a display depicting the local area in prehistoric times as well as modern times. All displays have audio visual effects and some have interactive features. There is an extraordinary display of African animals including an elephant and cape buffalo. In fact there are over 500 mounted animals on display including African and domestic. As an avid artist, it's great to be able to draw pictures of animals without their moving. (The Phoenix Zoo presented a big problem, the animals kept moving!) I like the "hands-on" part of this museum. As you hold a replica of a sabre-toothed tiger skull you can appreciate exactly how dangerous this animal was. Did you know that the sabre-toothed tiger wasn't really a cat? You learn the most interesting things in museums. We enjoyed the Museum of York County and I know I will return one day to fill a sketchbook full of drawings of African wildlife.

Blood and Taters

2011-12-06T22:20:00.001-05:00

"Potatoes?" she asked.

"Yes, sweet potatoes. The British were foraging for sweet potatoes because they had no bread," I said.

We were at the Eutaw Springs Battlefield Historic site in Orangeburg County, South Carolina.

"So, what does foraging for sweet potatoes have to do with one of the bloodiest battles of the American Revolution?" Claudette asked quizzically. I decided that it was a good time to impress her with my knowledge of American history.

"0n the morning of September, 8, 1781, about 2300 British soldiers were in this area, and a small party of them were here foraging for sweet potatoes, when they were discovered by a patrol of American patriots. The British forces were commanded by Lt. Col. Alexander Stewart. About seven miles away was the American general, Nathanial Greene, with about two thousand troops. The bulk of his forces were Continentals from North Carolina, Virginia, and Delaware. Continentals were the trained soldiers, you know. The balance were militia, farmers, and such; some were from the local area, some from the upcountry. Many of the soldiers were barefoot and without shirts. Of course, it was early September, and the temperatures were probably in the 90's, so nobody was freezing at night. But they were a somewhat rag tag bunch. Greene had all the partisan generals as well; Andrew Pickens from the upcountry, Thomas Sumter of the Piedmont, and Francis Marion,"The Swamp Fox', form the Santee hills and swamps," I said in my best authoritative tone. We walked through the iron gate hung between brick columns toward the first historical marker which gave a brief account of the battle. The next marker we looked at was in full color with a map.

"See," I said, "this shows how the troops were deployed."

"I'm afraid that I don't understand," she said, somewhat perplexed.

"Well, it went sorta like this. The Americans formed a line with the militia in the front and the Continentals behind them. The redcoats attacked the middle of the line and began to break through, but the Continentals reinforced the line and pushed the British back. Again the British sent in more men and pushed the Americans back. Then Greene ordered the Virginia and Maryland regulars into the front line and halted the redcoat charge. It was a violent battle and many accounts of the battle say that "the blood was ankle deep". After four hours of vicious fighting both sides seemed to have had enough. The British retreated and the American swarmed into their camp. Believing that they were victorious the Americans plundered the British camp. The patriots found and consumed considerable quantities of rum in their enemy's camp which rendered them somewhat ineffective. But the British had retreated," I explained as we walked along.

"Why is there this big marker for a British soldier here?" she asked.

"That's a good question. Why is there a British officer buried at this historic American Battle field? I think he was their hero."

"Hero?" she queried.

"You see when all the fighting was going on here, a few hundred yards away Major John Marjoribanks was in command of a battalion of British soldiers at a two-story brick house. His troops held off the Americans at the house, but he was wounded. The next day when Stewart decided that the land was not worth defending, and his troops began their march to Charleston, they didn't bury their dead! September the ninth was a rainy day, and Greene decided not to pursue. Marjoribanks died in route and was buried by the side of the road. In the 1940's when Lake Moultrie was built his grave was moved here."

"I had never heard of the battle of Eutaw Springs before," she said.

"Hey, Greene even received a gold medal for his efforts here. There are eight scenes from U.S. history depicted on the bronze doors of the United States House of Representatives and the presentation of this medal to Greene is one of them."

We got back in our car and were off to visit the grave site of General Francis Marion, "The Swamp Fox".

A European Atlantic Beach

2011-12-02T11:53:00.004-05:00

“This is unlike other Portuguese towns,” commented Claudette as I drove the Opal downhill toward the sea.

“It’s not medieval like most of the others,” I added. We were in Nazare, a town of over fourteen thousand on the west coast of the country. The road dead-ended at the beach with a broad street parallel to the shoreline. The Atlantic was a beautiful blue on this cloudless day with a temperature in the eighties. There is a lot of surf here. According to the Guardian newspaper a surfer once rode a ninety foot wave here. But there are no surfers out today. We parked the car and got out for a walk along the beach, or rather the sidewalk along the beach. The sidewalk here is as it is in most of Portugal, made of what appears to be black and white shards of ceramic material laid in a pattern. There was an old but brightly painted fishing boat there on the white sand of the beautiful crescent shaped beach of approximately one mile in length. We immediately noticed some fish nets which appeared to be drying on some posts on the beach. Upon closer observation we found that the nets were used to dry fish. There were a few dried fish on one of the nets, and nearby was a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties dressed in a long skirt with long sleeved blouse and a kerchief about her head. She was cleaning fish. They were sardines, about eight inches long. With rapid deft moves she scraped the fish and removed the entrails. By rapid, I mean that she could clean about a dozen fish per minute. On the other side of the street were a variety of eateries and shops selling touristy items. By the time we had almost reached the marina we realized that we had not passed our hotel which was on Praca Sousa Oliveira.

After a leisurely stroll in the opposite direction we found Hotel Mar Bravo. But, alas, it was too early to check in. We wandered through the narrow streets looking in all the various little shops and found a laundry. However, it seemed a bit expensive. Since we travel with only a carry-on bag laundry becomes a necessity when we stay over a week. We will be doing laundry in the hotel room tonight.

Nazare is divided in two parts: Praia (along the beach) and Sítio (an old town, on top of a cliff). At the opposite end of the beach from the marina a rocky promontory rises with Sitio on the top. We knew that there would be a spectacular view of the beach from atop the cliff. As we walked the narrow streets in the direction of the cliff, we saw the signs for the funicular. We bought a round trip ticket before entering the very modern rail car. The steep climb to the top of the cliff was at least 35 degrees, and we stopped once half-way up to allow the other car to pass on the way down. After leaving the station we were only a few yards from the panoramic view of the beach far below. It was indeed breath-taking. There was a fruit and nut vendor close by. We bought cashews and figs from an old woman who could have passed for the witch in a Hansel and Gretel story. She was dressed in the traditional black of a Portuguese widow. We saw a number of these women either selling things or holding signs announcing rooms for rent. Back at the base of the cliff we found a restaurant for lunch. We ate outside under a canopy in this eatery operated by a rather plump lady insistent on barking orders to the kitchen and wait staff. I had grilled sardines with vegetables and it was good. Claudette did not care to order fish. She has a thing about fish with their heads on and, also, the cooks on the Iberian peninsula cook their fish rare; not like sushi, but close. Between me and the street was a large container of cockles. It was great table side entertainment watching the little bivalves move around in the water.

We finally checked into the Hotel Mar Bravo. It was a beautiful modern facility with large murals and a large amount of glass and chrome in the lobby. Our room was on the third floor overlooking the plaza. Next to our room was a large common room with a computer terminal and large sofas, chairs and magazines and newspapers to read. Our Portuguese isn't very good, so we just surfed the Internet and checked e-mail. However, the room’s best feature was the view, through huge windows, of the beach. Sunset from this viewpoint will never be forgotten.

We walked around the plaza that evening and had an ice cream while doing some people-watching before turning in. The morning would find us on the way to Lisbon.

Thursday 9/29/2011

What? No Bull?

2011-11-23T11:11:00.001-05:00

“You missed it!” she said.

“What?” I said.

“You missed the turn,” she said.

“Did I?” I said.

“You did.” She said.

“So...” I said.

“We’ll have to go around a gain,” she said.

“I didn’t see the road number.” I said.

“There was no road number,” she said.

“Then how do you know we missed the road?” I said.

“Because the sign said “Pamplona”” she said.

“And...” I said.

“That’s where we’re going.” she said.

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, and I was glad to hear it in the midst of the dialogue beginning to sound like a Robert B. Parker novel. It had been a long drive from, although Spanish tollways are excellent highways. I was tired. We found Hotel Pamplona with relative ease, parked the car in hotel parking, and planned our visit.

Pamplona is one of the cities on El Camino de Santiago, the Way of Saint James, and has existed for over a thousand years. Legend has it that the body of Saint James was carried from Jerusalem to the coast of northern Spain and buried at Santiago de Compostela. The route is marked by an image of a blue seashell. But this was not why we were here. We came hoping to join in the Fiesta de San Fermin. The festival is held twice a year with the more famous one in July. This would be the mini-festival. The July festival attracts more that a million people. But, then, that is when the bulls run through the streets with people, an event reserved for those lacking in some mental facilities. Our friend Brian ran with the bulls. The event is also chronicled is Ernest Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises. But, alas, we would see no bulls run. However, we would join the festival the following day.

Pamplona, like many old cities, is build on a river and has a wall surrounding it it. The Hotel Pamplona was not within that wall, so we walked from the hotel, crossed the river, and walked up to the walled old city. It was only about ten o’clock in the morning when we entered the medieval city. I reminded Claudette about the early hour and that I did not think that festivals began that early. And then a young man with a trumpet walked past us on the narrow street. As we walked along more people were going in the same direction. Now we were sure we had found the festival. We knew that the festival parade would follow the same route that the bulls ran in July but had not a clue what that route was. We continued to walk, and our pace quickened. We heard horns and drums and people, many people. We could tell that we were joining a parade. But what kind? Did we really care?

The crowd had many families with youngsters on adult shoulders and some mommies pushing strollers with little tykes. The street is only about twelve feet wide including some of the tables of the sidewalk cafes. We continued to move faster trying to get to the head of the parade. Then we saw them: thirteen foot tall giants. Obviously there was a man underneath providing motivation for the giant king. Further up the street I saw kings and queens all dancing and swaying with the music. We had stumbled onto the parade of “the giants and big heads”, a tradition for over one hundred and fifty years. Each royal pair represents either Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. We had to hurry on and get in front of the parade which had grown to nearly one thousand people by now. We ducked into a cafe for a restroom break and a quick cafe con leche. We watched as the happy revelers went by and noticed that street vendors were out selling balloons kid stuff. Also, another band unattached to a giant and led by people carrying a banner had joined the parade. We got back in the melee, enjoying the throngs of happy people and I was constantly checking to see that I had no strange hands in my pockets. The parade goes downhill since it ends at the bullring. In july the bulls run from the bull holding pens to the bullring. But no bull today! A few blocks from the bull ring is a large, life size sculpture of the running of the bulls. Ernest Hemmingway, as well as the sculptor, are depicted in the work of art. Shortly after viewing the statue we had an amusing encounter with a Spanish automated toilet. Once again the lack of native language was our undoing. But why would you need instructions to use a toilet? Some of us do. This was a self-cleaning unit. If you did not get out of the small structure within a certain number of minutes of flushing the door would lock, the light would go out and the floor would be sprayed with a cleaning liquid. Fortunately, this cleaning liquid does not stain ones clothes. Later we found a plaza where many of the parade participants were singing while accompanied by guitars. We took the funicular back down to the riverbank near the bridge and walked back to our hotel. It had been a most enjoyable day. We walked around the area about our hotel but did not find a place we thought we would like to eat at and decided to eat at the hotel. It turned out to be good food and a good value. We turned in early.(In Spain that means before midnight.) It had been a great day of automated toilets and giants!

Down by the River in Basque Country

2011-11-19T15:44:00.000-05:00

The Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao,Spain

My most vivid memory of Bilbao, Spain is of a Basque driver screaming at me. I’m sure they were obscenities with no doubt some reference to my mother. But my lack of knowledge of the native language left me unscathed, although perhaps deserving of the outrage. I DID cut him off at an intersection, but I didn’t hit anybody. In my own defense I find it difficult to understand street signs and directions in Basque cities such as Bilbao.

Soon we were on a street by the river, and in front of us was the reason for our being here. The Guggenheim Museum was in full view. Canadian architect Frank Gehry’s masterpiece emerges from the bank of the Nervion River, the titanium finish glistening in the afternoon sun like the sails of a silver sailing ship. We crossed the river on the Princes of Spain Bridge and almost immediately found ourselves in the huge underground parking garage beside the museum. We took the elevator from the spacious parking garage to street level to walk a few hundred feet to the museum.

The Puppy

Near the entrance is the “Puppy”: a 39 foot sculpture of a dog covered with 70,000 blooming flowers! Created by American Jeff Koons, the fifteen ton creation has been in San Francisco, Paris, Sydney, and Arolsen, Germany, before finding a permanent home in Bilbao.

One of the first things you notice upon entering the lobby of the museum is that everything is curved; there are few flat surfaces except for the floor. There are nineteen galleries and a permanent collection of modern and contemporary art from the mid-twentieth century to the present. I was surprised to see a small (one meter square) painting by American artist Jackson Pollack, I did not realize he ever painted canvas that small in his “drip” style.

We had seen New York’s Guggenheim collection in a museum designed by another famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. Gehry’s museum is much like being in a multilevel maze of titanium, limestone, and glass. It’s quite exciting and encourages discovery. No photography was allowed inside the museum, and I followed this rule, I must say due to the encouragement of my travel mate. There are large terraces from which to view the river and river walk nearby. Here I saw a most unusual thing. There was a wheelchair with half a male manikin (from the waist down, fully clothed) in it. “Pushing” the chair was the upper part of the manikin. It was eerie and created quite a stir. We looked for the person controlling it via radio but could not find him in the crowd.

Back inside the museum we ate a sandwich at one of the museum’s cafes. The food was good but over-priced. On our walk back to the garage we could not restrain ourselves from taking a look over our shoulders at the “flowering pooch of Bilbao”. I also realized that I had been in a museum in which the structure was more exciting than the art it housed.

Cathedral de Santiago

After touring some of the city streets and numerous traffic circles we found the Hotel Arriaga overlooking the river Nervion. It was almost directly across the street from the opera house and down the street from a cathedral, the Church of San Anton. I double parked while Claudette went in and found where hotel parking was. It was underground as usual, and I started down the ramp after the garage type door went up and I saw a slim dark-haired woman motioning to me to follow her. I squeezed the Opal into a spot near the wall after letting Claudette exit the car first. (Otherwise, she would not have been able to get out of the car.) The lady, whom Claudette explained was the innkeeper, indicated that we were to follow her. We barely managed to get ourselves and luggage into the lilliputian elevator while the innkeeper explained in accented staccato English that she must operate the elevator. We were not allowed at the controls. The room was like something out of the 1930’s, but comfortable. We stowed our gear and hit the streets to check out Bilbao’s old city.

Walking down the street outside the hotel we could see a cathedral bathed in the late afternoon sun. The yellow limestone had a golden glow. We entered the first street to the right and found ourselves in the fourteenth century old city. The old buildings now have modern shops of high fashion and expensive jewelry. Foot traffic is fairly sparse but will increase as the clock approaches the nine o’clock hour. We window shopped a bit before finding an old restaurant for a bite to eat.

The Bilbao Athletic Club had some of the older residents dining. There was a counter down one side with a display case full of enticing tapas. The walls were decorated with soccer jerseys, posters, faded photographs of soccer teams of the years gone by, and a glass case full of autographed soccer balls and trophies. The counterman was quite chatty with fairly good English, and an old fellow suggested we buy a certain tapas. “Bueno, bueno!”, he said as he pointed at certain dishes. Then we bought a selection of tapas but noticed that he bought something different. We took our food to one of the about ten tables. It is cheaper to buy your food at the counter than from a table. We enjoyed our food and soon joined the growing crowd in the streets. We walked by Cathedral de Santiago. Bilbao is on El Camino de Santiago, the route of pilgrims following the path of Saint James.

After a good nights sleep and a quick breakfast we were on the road again.

It's More Than Ham

2011-11-15T12:16:00.000-05:00

We ducked into a small eatery near Plaza Mayor in Madrid for a quick bite. Tapas would be our choice. Tapas are small servings of food something akin to an hors d’oeuvre but larger. Like most restaurants, the place was small with a lunch counter and a few small tables. What caught my attention was a large number of hams hanging from the ceiling. There were at least twenty-five hams with small cups attached to the large end of the ham to catch any drainage from the meat. On the counter Is a curious device in which a ham is secured. The device allows a man to cut thin slivers of the meat in the direction of the grain. The man carving the ham noticed my curious stare and offered me a sample of the meat. The thin meat was very tasty but slightly chewy. And a bit salty for me. This was the famous jamon, Spanish ham.

Having grown up on a farm I was familiar with salt cured meat but it was different from this. As a farm boy we would simply rub the fresh butchered ham with salt until it would absorb no more, then hang the ham in the smokehouse until we would slice off some for cooking. The meat was extremely salty and hard as a rock when fried but was good with grits and eggs for breakfast. Spanish ham is salt cured as well and is sold in different grades. The determining factors are the process, the breed of hog and the diet of the swine. The meat is cured by covering it with a specific amount of salt for a given time then the ham is washed and hung to dry. It can be air dried for one year to forty-eight months. An expert determines when the jamon is ready to eat by taking a core sample of the meat. Different breeds of pigs are used, but the most preferred are the black ones. The most expensive jamon, approximately $95 per lb., comes from black pigs fed a diet of acorns foraged from forests of oak trees.

We found that, except on the coast of Spain, jamon was always the featured meat in restaurants. I never sampled the expensive jamon but can vouch for the less expensive with tomatoes, olive oil, and herbs on toasted bread. It was delicious! In Madrid we did visit Museo de Jamon. The museum had a great bag lunch of a sandwich, soda and a piece of fruit for only two euros!

A Letter From Bubba

2011-11-02T17:30:00.000-04:00

Just the other day I received a letter from and old friend. We were in high school together and I had not heard from him in quite a while.

Dear Tony,

As you know me and Sonny are over here in Spain. We heard that these Spanish people really like roasted baby pigs. We’s pig farmers you know and we’re trying to get a better price for our porkers. You ‘member Sonny, doncha? He’s Mr. Jabe Mulinax’s oldest boy. He’s a big ‘un and that’s really good aroun a farm. An’ smart too. Finished high school and all. We’s here in Cordoba, Spain and las night Sonny said we should learn somethin’ about culture.

He said we was gonna see some flamingo dancin’. I’ve heared of a lot of things like racin’ pigs and such but never no birds dancin’! Anyway, it was dark when went out to this place that was kinda like a hole in the wall, a real cave. We had this table right next to this little stage. This young fella brought us a bottle of wine. I ain’t much of a wine drinker, I’m a beer man myself. This stuff tasted a lot like pine rosin, but I drunk it anyway. They had a bunch of straight chairs on the stage and the folks went up an sat down. One fella didn’t have a chair so he set on a big wooden box. There was this guitar player that looked a lot like that actor Antonio Bandaras. He commenced to try to tear the strings off that guitar when he played. The fella on the box started beating on it like it was a drum. This skinny fella dressed in black with long hair and cowboy boots got up and started to dance. He was stompin’ like he was trying to put out a fire. And the man on the box started hollerin’ like maybe he was in pain or like maybe somebody had run over his coon dog. The dancin’ man spun around and shook his head and me an’ Sonny got a shower of Spanish sweat. It was kinda like when your dog shakes hisself after he’s been the creek. Smelled a little better though. Everybody cheered when the dancin’ man set down. Then this pretty little girl got up to dance. She was about twenty-five and real easy on the eyes. She was dressed in this long frilly dress and commenced to dance while the guitar player played, the same fella hollered and the other fella clapped in a rhythm with the music. She done the same kinda of dancin’ that the man done but was a whole lot better to look at. They carried on like this for about a hour. Sonny, he’s right smart, y’know, said they was gypsies. My grandma was scared of gypsies. She said they would steal yo’ babies.

The show was over and we left. I never did see no birds. The dancin’ girl was by the front door when we left smoking a Chesterfield cigarette. And she smiled at me.

We’ll be tryin’ to sell more pigs tomorrow.

Your ole buddy

Bubba

P s say “Hello” to Claudette for me.

A Sunday Afternoon in Madrid

2011-10-24T19:14:00.001-04:00

Hemingway said that bullfighting was one of the three true sports. But before reading Hemingway I had fought the bull in my backyard as a small boy. I had only that ratty towel from the bathroom to use for a cape but I could hear the crowds yelling, “Ole!”, as I fought the ferocious beast. But now I was in Spain, where bullfighting began and I was to see the real thing.

We got off the Metro at the last stop to see the Madrid bullring within view. There was a crowd waiting for the gates to open the bullring whose architectural details were Moorish. There were the usual vendors selling t-shirts and posters and stuff to eat and drink. Plaza Toros de Las Ventas is the most prestigious bullring in the world. Completed in 1929, the ring is almost 197 feet in diameter and has seating for twenty-five thousand. Claudette bought our tickets online and our seats are on the very first row or about six feet from the ring. I think it’s great but don’t mention to her that I’ve seen a bull jump the wall into the front row of seats in a YouTube video. I had done a bit of research and knew that we would see three matadors kill six bulls during the evening.

The bullfight begins with a great fanfare with the band playing as the matadors and their teams enter the bullring. I half way expected to hear the Tijuana Brass version of the “Lonely Bull”. The matadors enter the ring first in their glittering suits of gold braid and sequins reminiscent of a rhinestone cowboy. Each matador, bullfighter, has a team of assistants to aid him. They include picadors, men on horseback, a sword handler, and other men some dressed like matadors. All ten men are paid by the matador.

The crowd cheers as the matadors enter. The most senior matador is on the right as they face the place of honor in the stands. This is reserved seating for the king, mayor or whatever official to whom the fight is dedicated. Soon only four assistants in the brightly colored matador costumes are left in the ring. From our right the bull enters the ring. He is big and black and weighs about fifteen hundred pounds. He charges each of the men. In front of us the assistants jump behind the fence as the bull charges. We feel the splinters from the fence as the bull hits it. He snorts, paws the earth and charges again. One of the other assistants attracts his attention and he charges him. Other assistants attract the bull to charge them as they wave their brightly colored capes in front of the bull. A picador enters the ring riding a horse which is blindfolded. The horse has heavy padding to protect it from the horns of the bull. The bull immediately charges the horse and lifts the horse and rider off the ground. The lady next to me covers her eyes. The picador stabs the bull in the shoulder with his lance. This is the beginning of the end for the bull as he begins to bleed. The matadors attract the bull away from the picador and stab him with short barbed spears. The bull knocks one of the assistants to the ground and attempts to gore him. The crowd screams. He narrowly escapes as the other men attract the bull away and he crawls behind the protective wall. The Spanish really love their matadors. In one instance when a favorite matador was gored to death by a bull, they killed the bull and then, they killed the bull's mother. She was giving birth to "killer" bulls they said.

The bull’s movements begin to slow. His charges are no longer vigorous. Now the assistants have left the ring and there is only the matador with the bull. He continues to tempt the bull into charging with the movement of his cape. The crowd shouts, “Ole!” with each of his ballet like moves inches from the deadly horns. At one point he turns his back on the bull who is staring at his back. He confidently walks to the side of the ring near us and selects a sword from his sword handler. Walking back into the ring he tempts the bull to come in very close with his head near the ground. The matador thrusts the sword into the between the shoulders of the bull. The thrust is deadly for the bull and he falls instantly to the ground. The matador doffs his hat and bows to the cheers of the crowd. The crowd also cheers for the bull that has fought a good fight as he is dragged from the ring by a team of three mules.

We watched three more bulls killed. One of the bulls would not fight and booed from the ring. I found out later much to my chagrin that the great fighters fought in the spring. Maybe, the next time I’ll be here in the spring.

The Hug...

2011-10-23T13:22:00.000-04:00

“Can I give you a hug?” he asked. “It’s part of my initiation.”

Claudette said, “Yes!” And the somewhat rotund University of Coimbra student responded. The upperclassmen in their long cloaks laughed as I mimicked punching him out!

We were walking to the Coimbra market to get some sausage and cheese for our road picnics when the students approached us. We had only been in this Portuguese city of some one hundred thousand on the Mondego River for a few hours and had seen some of the student hi-jinxs in front of the Monastery de Santa Cruz. The Monastery is a national monument since the first two kings of Portugal are buried in it. We had been relaxing with our 1.5 € beers while watching the university upperclassmen instruct the yellow t-shirt clad freshmen on how to dance in a fountain. The 1.5 € beer was, of course, advertised as one euro but by the time it was delivered to our table it was 1.5. Something was lost in translation, I think.

At the market we bought our sausage and cheese, and then continued to the elevator which would take us to the top of the mountain. We were curious about the fee, but a student was quick to tell us that it was a free ride for old people. We smiled politely and thanked him. We got a great view of the city as the elevator soared upward. The lift shaft and car are of Plexiglas. At the top we were greeted by…cats, five furry felines. Not thrown away looking cats but well fed looking cats with their own food dish. Naturally, I had to take a quick photo of the cat person I’m married to with the cats.

We continued our walk onto the University of Coimbra campus past the anti-capitalism graffiti to the central campus where they were having a fair of some sort with many booths promoting various activities. We were accosted by some pretty female pharmacy students attempting to sell us ballpoint pens which resembled hypodermic needles. They were decked out in the black uniform suits with white shirts and ties and the ankle length black capes. Their English was excellent, and I have difficulty resisting a pretty face. So…yes, I have another pen. Will U. S. Customs have a problem with it? I don’t know. On our ride back to the lower town via elevator one of the passengers was blind, and the lift operator and passengers alike helped him out. It was good to see those fortunate looking out for the less fortunate.

Once back in the lower town we went about trying to find the location of the fado performance. Claudette approached a young man who asked, “French or English?” She answered “English” and he told her the performance called “A Capella” was held in an old church on a lane which was barred to traffic. On the way back to Hotel Dona Inez Coimbra we passed Sao Tiajo church, a small twelfth century Romanesque structure. The simplicity was interesting, particularly after seeing so many elaborately decorated cathedrals.

Once at our hotel the desk clerk got us tickets for the performance and arranged for a cab to pick us up. We took a nap and had a bite to eat before going to the performance. Nothing happens before eight or nine on the Iberian Peninsula. We simply told the cabbie “a capella” and off we went. About halfway up the mountain we drove down a narrow lane and walked a few yards to the small church. It was below street level accessed by stone steps to a courtyard set up for outdoor dining. Although we were early, we were invited in to a table in the front of the performance area. A DVD was playing and projected on the wall. This was our first introduction to fado. The performer featured was Mariza, whose video is below.

After the video a waiter brought us a pitcher of vino verde as it was time for the performance to begin. A guitarist sat in a chair about eight feet in front of us and began to play. I’m thinking,” What kind of a capella performance is this? With music?” He was joined by another musician who was playing what we found out to be was a Portuguese guitar. It has twelve strings and the appearance of a medieval lute. The sound of the music was very interesting and had sort of a “gypsy” sound. A rather good-looking fellow in a dark suit and white shirt sans necktie appeared and spoke to the audience in English, Spanish, and Portuguese about the origins of Fado de Coimbrs and of how the singing had originated from local townsfolk before being adopted by the students of the university. He said that the Portuguese word “saudade” best describes the music and there is no English equivalent. An audience member said it meant “nostalgic”. The guitarists began to play, and his baritone voice filled the chapel with a mournful song. After several songs and a break in which the singer visited the tables and talked with the audience members, the performance continued with the singer teaching us the chorus of one of the songs. We raised our glasses of vino verde and sang a sad Portuguese song in a twelfth century church with the audience. It was great fun. The singer, still shrouded in a student’s long cape, introduced the musicians and the show was over. Outside the chapel the performers chatted with the audience members of which there were about thirty.

We climbed the steps to the street and walked to a waiting cab. The driver was a surly, wiry young man with a shock of jet black hair who seemed anxious to get our business. He slammed the Skoda into reverse gear and backed rapidly out of the street. Claudette cringed. Then we went down a street crowded with students narrowly missing some of them

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” she says to the driver. Tires screech and the direction we are traveling is reversed. Upon reaching the hotel, Claudette complains that the fare is more than the price we paid to go to the performance by cab. I convinced her that we would not win an argument against the cab’s meter and paid the cabby. We would have been easily ripped off had we not known where we were. But tomorrow we would be in our rented Opal and leaving Coimbra after a, for the most part, fun filled visit. I took some photos and did some pretty good sketches in Coimbra.

Oh, yes, by the way, I found out that “a capella” means “the Chapel” in Portuguese.

A nice little beach on the Mediterranean

2011-09-23T16:27:00.002-04:00

Cadaquez:
We went for a walk along the street by the beach, some on the sidewalk and some in the street. It was one-lane with the Mediterranean Sea on our left and various restaurants, hotels and other buildings on the right. The motorscooters and cars were behind us but you could easily hear them over the noisy seagulls and waves lapping the sand. We found a restaurant we liked, Rosa's and ordered some bocadillos, sandwiches. Mine was ham and cheese although they use a different word than jamon for ham in Catalunya. Claudette had a sausage sandwich and the price was right. Cafe con leche was or choice of after dinner drink. The daylight faded into twilight as we watched the boats bob at anchorage and couples in the sand geot dangerously close to one another.
I have found the one true reason to visit Spain.

Note: Today :Madrid

2011-09-18T10:39:00.002-04:00

Today in Madrid we went to the National Naval Museum. We got off thel Metro at the Atocha stop. It was the same as when we went to the Prado
But we became disoriented and did some people watching. The museum is operated by the Spanish navy so you must show your passport to get in. The displays depict their navy from whenever until modern times. The 15th and 16th centuries were most interesting to me. There are hundreds of model ships, many paintings, artifacts and weapons. The transition from sail to steam is fascinating. It is interesting to note that the Spanish credit the weather for their defeat at Trafalgar more than the English.
We took the metro back to Puerta del Sol and bought a bag lunch from the Museum of Jamon. We relax til time of the bullfight.

Cité de l'Automobile

2011-09-09T18:10:00.001-04:00

The entrance to the hotel parking lot was through a covered alleyway. We knew the hotel had off street parking but were not prepared for the gated entry with a keypad. As a fan of automobiles I was delighted to see a Ferrari in the parking lot. After all, our purpose for being in Mulhouse, France, was to see one of the most prestigious automobile collections in the world. The hotel was really nice although the desk clerk was rather snooty. Mulhouse was different from most French cities we had visited in that it was more Germanic and this was quite noticeable in the names of streets and businesses. Indeed it had been a part of Germany several times in its history.

We caught the bright yellow tram after purchasing a ticket at the ticket kiosk for our trip to the museum which is located in the industrial part of the city in a former textile manufacturing facility. The museum is of 19th century architecture and covers about 200,000 square feet or a little bigger than a Wal-Mart Super Store but on three levels and is well laid out with automobiles grouped in several categories. The automobile collection was started by Fritz Schlumpf, the textile magnate to whom the building belonged. However, due to the demise of French textiles the collection eventually became the property of the French government. Hence it is known as Cité de l'Automobile, the French National Automobile Museum. Schlumpf was an avid fan of Bugatti automobiles and had an extensive collection. Here you can see Bugattis from the very earliest to the latest Veyron. Of the 500 cars in the collection, ninety-seven brands are represented, but one hundred twenty-three are Bugattis. Some of the other brands are Hispano-Suiza, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce, Maserati, Maybach, Mercedes, and Porshe of the 400 cars on display. There are 1one hundred twenty on reserve and twenty on loan to museums throughout the world.

The displays are meticulous. There are cut-a-way displays of vintage Bugattis and displays of engines with explanatory videos. There are the early one cylinder engines as well as the later V-10 Peugeot and W-16 Veyron engines. In the display of the Bugatti Royale the wooden forms upon which the sheet metal was formed are on display. Formula 1 racers are displayed with a giant photograph of a raceway crowd in the background. Other racing cars such as Grand Prix and rally cars are also displayed. Many of the cars are grouped according to year of manufacture. The Bugatti Veyron, the world’s fastest production automobile, has a place of honor. Another interesting inter-active display allows you to sit in a Citroen sedan while it is rotated on its axis imitating a rollover crash. It was inoperative when we were there, but then I’ve done the rollover before in a Ford on the highway. Some history need not be repeated.

It is very interesting to observe the evolution of the automobile through the displays. Here you can see how the primitive three-wheel vehicle evolved into the modern sedan. The museum is very quiet and comfortable, more like an art gallery than a place of greasy mechanical things. (They are not greasy, everything is pristine.)There are some truly historic automobiles such as the Bugatti Royale, Mercedes-Benz SSK and Colin Chapman’s F-1 Lotus. Chapman’s design changed Formula One racing radically. Notably missing is the Ford GT-40, the car that beat Ferrari at La Mans and 1932 Alpha-Romero racer which dethroned Bugatti as a consistent winner. Young Enzo Ferrari was a driver for Alpha-Romero in the early days. Regrettably, I saw only one American brand and it was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

The French National Automobile Museum was another one of those places I could have spent a couple of days or more. But we had to move on and find the place where my uncle had died in France during “the war to end all wars”.

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Additional Information

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Labor Day Delight

2011-09-07T20:10:00.000-04:00

Labor Day just was. One thing I always enjoy food wise on Labor Day is hash. Now, according to Webster, Noah or a reasonable substitute, hash is a dish of diced or chopped meat and often vegetables, as of leftover corned beef or veal and potatoes, sautéed in a frying pan or of meat, potatoes, and carrots cooked together in gravy. However, the definition according to the folks I grew up with in the Piedmont area of South Carolina this is not quite the same. My ancestors are of strong Scots-Irish stock and make hash a different way. We do not use leftover meat but fresh from the butcher pork and beef. Usually the only vegetables added are white potatoes what we called Irish potatoes and onions.

The cooking process is different as well. A cast iron wash pot is used, one or more depending on how much hash is to be cooked. It is a long and time consuming process usually about twelve hours or more. It all begins with the selection of meat. Cap’n jack said always use a combination of beef and pork. He, my father, preferred one quarter beef to three quarters pork. Boston butt for the pork, and I don’t know why the shoulder of a hog is called a butt except maybe the people of Boston have some kind of anatomical identity problem. The meat is put into the pot and the fire started and the usual firewood is seasoned hickory or oak. Then begins the long night of keeping the fire burning and stirring the meat so it doesn’t burn. The meat is cooked until it falls apart. Some people actually pull the meat apart and some perform the ultimate desecration of the meat by grinding it. Potatoes in half-inch cubes are added with chopped onions in this late cooking process. As dawn approaches all the hunting and fishing stories have all been told and some of the fellas have taken a little drink from a half pint bottle of spirits to better to welcome the new day. It was also time for the final seasoning of the hash. I’ve seen all sorts of things added, vinegar, butter, hot sauce, red and black pepper, salt, and various spices. Seasoning hash is a very personal thing. My preferences are salt, pepper, vinegar, sage, red and black pepper.

When I was growing up this was always a dish for a celebration, a holiday, a family reunion, or a big meal at the Lodge hall. It was usually served in small cardboard trays with sweet pickles and sliced white bread with plenty of sweet iced tea to wash it down. Maybe it’s a Southern thing?

Fire in a Bottle

2011-09-02T18:39:00.000-04:00

We turned off the main road in northern France onto the narrow gravel drive to the stone farmhouse. A small blue sign said Ferme de Félicité. Apple orchards were visible for as far as the eye could see. There were blooming flowers around the farmhouse door and a yellow tabby lay in the sun. We parked under the huge oak tree and approached the door. According to the sign we were in the right place to taste that elusive nectar of the apple, Calvados, the fiery apple brandy that this part of France in famous for. The lady met us before we got to the door was about fifty and looked like a farm wife.

We said, "Bonjour".

She answered, "Calvados?"

And in our best French we responded, "Qui."

We followed her to what appeared to be a stone barn and entered into the cool dimly lit interior. It was obviously a small room in the barn serving as a sales area with displays of bottled product. Bottled cider and Calvados with promotional posters and marketing brochures were on the counters and walls. This was where the brandy and other apple products were produced. The process begins with the apple and there can be many varieties in each batch to be squeezed. On this farm apples are grown on twenty-four acres which produce twenty-five tons of apples annually. From these apples come apple cider, Pommeau de Normandy, and Calvados. Also apple jam is also made in a limited quantity. Pommeau de Normandy is a blend of apple musts and Calvados and is often drunk as an aperitif. It didn't take long to realize our host had a limited knowledge of English but she set out small glasses for us to sample the goods. We sampled the Calvados and the Pommeau de Normandy. I will say that after sampling the apple brandy, Calvados, I have a great deal of respect for the fire-eaters we had seen earlier in our trip at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. It was simply breath-taking. But the Pommeau de Normandy was rather sweet with only a minor bite in the taste unlike Calvados.

Calvados has an interesting history and traces its heritage back to Charlemagne in the 8th century. Actually, the region of Brittany, Maine, and Normandy were known as the Calvados area. In the late 19th century Calvados experienced a huge demand because over 75% of the grape vineyards were destroyed by disease. The name “Calvados” actually was created as a designation for apple brandy to differentiate it from other brandies for tax purposes. Calvados is distilled like whiskey and the Calvados designated AOC is distilled twice. Like other distilled beverages its monetary value increases with age. We noticed that the three-year-old Calvados was more expensive than the two-year-old and it must be at least two-years-old to be sold as Calvados AOC.

After sampling the various beverages we chose a bottle of Pommeau de Normandy because we liked the taste. We would not be drinking it as an aperitif though, we found it a perfect compliment for cheese and sausage purchased at local markets. We said, “Au revoir” to the lady and the tabby that seemed to want to go with us and continued on our journey through the French countryside.

It Was Just a Dotted Red Line

2011-08-23T23:32:00.000-04:00

We were leaving Bandelier National Park in northern New Mexico on our way to Tuba City, Arizona. It was a spring day with bright sunshine and a comfortable temperature. I was driving the Dodge Neon, a compact four door sedan, we had rented in Albuquerque. Our intent was to drive northwest and stop in Tuba City for some Navajo fry bread before continuing on to the Grand Canyon. It was a good plan.

We decided to take a less populated route. I know this sounds a little oxymoronic since there are very few heavily populated routes in New Mexico. What I really mean is a secondary road just a bit off the beaten path. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

The road we had chosen quickly changed from gravel to more dirt than gravel. This wasn’t a reason for alarm; I had grown up driving on the red dirt roads of the piedmont area of South Carolina. We did begin to get concerned when the road turned into a muddy path through the trees. Perhaps one indicator of things to come was the four-wheel-drive pick-up truck we passed abandoned in a ditch.

I did not realize that the winter snows were melting in the mountains, and everything was wet. I had always thought of New Mexico as one big dry desert; I had watched a lot of westerns. But I reassured my wife that I had driven in such conditions many times before. She did not give me a vote of confidence. While what I told her was true, about growing up driving on such roads, I did not tell her that the vehicles I had driven were bigger and more powerful. But I did say that no matter what, we must not stop, because if we did we might never get started again. I noted that we had almost a full tank of gas, and that was one thing in our favor. She was not impressed with our good fortune.

Soon I found myself gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles were white. I could only see my travelmate with my peripheral vision; my eyes were fixed on the road ahead. The little car swerved and slid over the road as traction was difficult to find. Under my breath I was saying some very unkind things about the little under powered sedan, but we continued forward. Occasionally there would be a crunching sound as the oil pan of the engine would drag on the road and the little 2 liter engine would over-rev, before the tires would finally get traction again. I wished for mud grip tires. We’d had them on our trucks when I was younger.

We were on a heavily rutted road, but we had to avoid the deep ruts, because our car would drag and possibly get stuck if we tried to use them. At one place a stream had overflowed the roadway, and we had no choice but to go through the wash out. I remembered how a Volkswagen I once owned would float and hoped the Dodge would do the same, but our momentum carried us across the stream. However, there was no sigh of relief, because we still had miles to go, and we knew not how many.

I was beginning to appreciate the front wheel drive configuration of the car. I believed that if I could keep the front wheels pointed in the right direction and continue moving we would get through. Frequently the rear of the car would be in one of the ditches of the single lane road but we continued on without stopping.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of driving in silence with only an occasional gasp from my passenger, we saw a barricade ahead. After we passed through an opening in the barricade we could see an asphalt highway ahead. We stopped for a breather and a bottle of water from the cooler. Behind us the sign on the barricade stated, “Road Closed to Through Traffic”. It had been a learning experience. We found out that I could drive a front wheel drive compact on muddy roads. We also learned to understand what the legends on a road map really meant. We had been on an “unimproved road”, and that was an understatement!

More Travel Tips

2011-08-19T17:22:00.001-04:00

I recently found this video of travel tips on YouTube by Graham Hughes, a well known world traveler. Hughes holds the world record for the most countries visited in on year using ground transport: 133. I found the video informative and have added my own observations below.

My additional pointers:

Don't carry a laptop. They are too big and heavy. We travel with carry-on baggage only. An iPod and redily available Wifi will serve you just as well. If you must use a computer, Internet cafes are often available for a small fee. Use the cloud for applications..
We've found that he insurance on our Visa card to be great when we had an accident in a car we had rented on that card.
We are big proponents of using debit cards and ATM machines.
For cheap bag storage we've used airports. We left our bags a Seatac while staying at a nearby motel. Occasionally you can drop your bags off at your hotel prior to check-in.
Drink bottled water when in doubt. Street food is good but you must be sure it is well cooked.

On the Rogue

2011-08-19T12:06:00.000-04:00

“O monstrous beast! How like a swine he lies!” the man in the long robe said. His voice was crisp and clear in the night air and punctuated by the distant rumble of thunder. We were enjoying a performance of William Shakespeare’s “Taming of the Shrew” at the Elizabethan Theatre in Ashland, Oregon, during the annual Shakespeare festival.

The town of Ashland, whose population is almost 21,000, is home to Southern Oregon University. It has all the appearances of a college town: used book stores, coffee houses, funky eateries, and dozens of disenfranchised-appearing youths hanging out everywhere. But, I like college towns. They have a character all their own, a certain joie de vivre. Here, nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains amongst the hope of tomorrow, we enjoy a performance of one of the greatest playwright’s works. As the story unfolds tiny droplets of water begin to fall, and the night sky flickers with an electrical discharge. However, like their counterparts in Elizabethan England, the actors continue to perform in the light rain. Fortunately, it is the last act, and the performance is over before a torrential downpour.

We were back in our tent at the Valley of the Rogue State park before the rain began falling hard. We had pitched our tent near the Rogue River before going into town to have a look around before the theatre. We would camp here for two nights. When we made reservations for the play performance we had allowed for the second nights’ performance in the event the first was cancelled due to weather. Tomorrow, we would kick back around the campsite and maybe go for a hike along the river.

We awoke to the sound of the Rogue River as it flowed past our campsite. Claudette was insistent on cooking breakfast over the campfire. Once again, it was a morning feast among the tall conifers of the northwest. She served up bacon with eggs, hash brown potatoes, and strong camp coffee. Wow! What a way to start a day. There’s something about a campfire that just makes the food taste better. After I did the dishes I kicked back and put the finishing touches on yesterday’s drawings and reflected on our visit to Ashland. I began a tattered Clive Cussler novel I had picked up at the used bookstore. We had had a fairly extensive look around town before the play. We visited the aforementioned bookstore as well as some art galleries and may have enjoyed a performance of music and dance in a small park. I think it could best be referred to as experimental theatre. The language spoken and sung was French, of which I know little. We ate lunch at the Black Sheep Pub which was a faithful reproduction of an English public house. Claudette had fish and chips, and I ordered bangers and mash. Both were delicious. Now, I could relax and immerse myself into a Dirk Pitt adventure, while my intrepid travelmate was determined to find some wild berries. Indeed, she did find some, and returned to the campsite with about a quart of big delicious appearing blackberries. A slap to the back of my hand was a wordless indication that I was not to determine the quality of the berries prior to their being cooked.

Dinner that afternoon was special. Or, I should say that desert was special. Blackberries with dumplings! Plump juicy blackberries, just a few hours removed from their riverside home along the Rogue, in a thick gooey sauce with big tasty dumplings, warm but not too hot. I would have given one of my appendages for a scoop of vanilla ice cream! Nevertheless it was extremely difficult to eat slowly and savor the succulent flavors. But I did! As a wise man once said, “Joy in eating is always fleeting”. That evening I learned how to make dumplings and would later make my famous chicken and dumplings.

After dinner we did those things that must be done around a campsite. There were dishes to wash and things to pack in order to be ready to leave at first light. Then, we’d build a campfire and listen to the river and maybe pop some corn and recount the days’ adventures. But, not tonight. Mother Nature had another idea. The wind began to blow fairly hard, and it began to rain. There was much thunder and lightning. We quickly stashed a few things in the car and sought refuge in the tent. I was quite comfortable in the tent. It is dome shaped, and the wind doesn’t move it much, but seeing the lightning flashes through the walls became a bit unnerving.

“I’m not getting in that tent! I’m getting in the car!” I heard her say and then there was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder and a large crash. My wife and travelmate did not need to plead with me for us to take refuge in our nearby car. Quickly I ran to the car and got inside just before a down pour. The down pour was short lived and we were soon out of the car and on our way to the bathrooms. We met a Park Ranger who told us that the bathrooms had been locked up and could not be used due to the lack of electricity but told of a bathroom located about a mile away that we could use.

On the way back from the bathroom Claudette told me that she had seen a big tree limb fall off a tree near our tent. After returning to the camping area we saw what we thought was a crowd of people near our tent. Upon further investigation we found that a huge limb had fallen from a large hardwood. The limb, which was about ten inches in diameter and fifteen feet long, had hit a travel trailer within ten yards of our tent. It had literally ripped the extended room from the side of the trailer. The owners were away and had quite a surprise on their return. Fortunately for them, they weren’t inside and the trailer was a rental. We were tired and slept well that night.

We left early the next morning after our usual travel breakfast of instant oatmeal, coffee, juice, and fruit, and we have great memories of the valley of the Rogue and Shakespeare.

We have made several trips coast to coast camping along the way. We carry everything in our car, a 2002 Acura TLS. We are tent campers and cook either over a campfire or propane stove. We carry very few perishables and shop local supermarkets when necessary and buy presh fruits and vegetables locally. When necessary we use coin operated laundries. We find this exciting and a less expensive way to see the country.

Chipping Campden

2011-08-17T16:22:00.002-04:00

We had been driving on the B4081 road through one of the most beautiful parts of England with rolling hills and charming villages: The Cotswolds. Here in the west central area of England we were searching for the town of Chipping Campden. Chipping is from an Old English word meaning market.

During the Middle Ages this was a wool producing center. It is not unusual in the rural areas of the British Isles to be waylaid by sheep. I think sheep look kind of neat, the small ones are cute, and rack of lamb is one of my favorite meats. But, hey, I wish they would stay out of the road. Unlike cows, which will move over to let you get through, sheep just mosey along at their own sweet time. However, in the Cotswolds sheep provided the livelihood of the residents.

We drove down the B4081, which becomes High Street in Chipping Campden, searching for our inn. We stopped to ask a couple where Lower High Street or the Volunteer Inn was, and they said they didn’t know. About a hundred yards further down the street we found the inn. Maybe they were tourists from Manchester or somewhere else. We dragged our bags into the Volunteer Inn pub and the barkeep directed us to our room. Our upstairs room was overlooking the street and, as usual, appeared comfortable.

We were starved and went downstairs to the pub, but it was dinnertime, and we wanted a bit more than pub food. There was a restaurant behind the pub: The Maharaja. I have a special dislike for Indian food, but it is all the rage in England now. Down the street a bit we found the Ligon Inn whose kitchen was serving up traditional English food. I had bangers and mash with mushy peas. Bangers are sausages and mash is mashed potatoes. And mushy peas, well…they’re green peas mashed up.

When we got back to the Volunteer Inn we went in the pub for a pint of the local ale. We always check out the local ales. The Volunteer received its name because it was the pub at which the local men volunteered to fight for king and country. The interior had a bar, of course, a piano, dartboard, and two flat screen televisions. The ceiling was low with exposed beams and a stone fireplace took up one end. The crowd that was there earlier was gone, since the football game was over. Only the bartender and an aging barfly were there. We enjoyed our pints at a table in the corner before going to bed. I suspect that many a lad had had his first pint here and many a scarred returning soldier had enjoyed a pint here as well and, no doubt, seduced by the same lusty barmaid.

We got a great night’s sleep, and the bed was comfortable and cozy. In all the Bed and Breakfasts and Inns we stayed at, we noticed that the heat was always turned off at 10 o’clock. Thick covers on the beds are a must.

From our fogged up window the next morning we could see Saint Catherine’s Roman Catholic Church, a charming yellow limestone structure with locally crafted stained glass windows, across the street. We had a cup of tea before going on an expeditionary look at Chipping Campden. You can always depend on a tea service in every room in Britain.

My travelmate and I thought we’d take a walk before breakfast and began across the street in front of Saint Catherine’s and proceeded up Hoo Lane to the church cemetery. It’s always interesting to read the epitaphs and look at the sculptural elements of the tombstones. The spring-loaded wooden gate closed behind us as we came back onto the lane directly across from a cottage with a thatched roof. They always remind me of Hansel and Gretel or someone else from the fairy tales of my youth. Thatched roofs are making a comeback as a show of wealth and that’s quite interesting because only the less affluent had this kind of roof for over five centuries. And here it was; a typical thatched roofed cottage in an English village on a cool misty morning, just like in National Geographic magazine.

Behind the gated garden in front of the cottage was a large fifteen foot tall shrub trimmed in the likeness of a bird. Topiaries are common in English gardens and my wife says to me, “I think there’s a bird in that bird!” “Indeed there is a bird nest in the bush,” said the thin balding man with the necktie and cardigan sweater as he came through the gate. He told us that the bird nest was an annual occurrence, as he hurried off down the lane.

We reversed our direction, turned left, and walked down High Street past the Town Hall, which is a 14th century building originally used as a Wool Exchange . We passed the impressive Cotswald House built in 1815. Everything looks so prim and proper with many blooming flowers around the shop and residence doors. Canopies of blooming wisteria framed many of the entry doors. It was kind of like stepping back in time; you could almost hear the horse and wagon of the milkman in the early morning. As my imagination drifted back in time I noticed a bottle of milk on the stoop of the next house, and a fat tabby cat quickly disappeared into a narrow walkway beside a house. We continue walking past the Old Market Place built in 1627. It is a stone structure with open sides and a roof with many gables. The market had been once used in the wool trade, and buyers from other regions and countries would come to Chipping Campden to buy wool for their mills. The sounds of draft animals, vendors hawking their wares, and the rattle of armor would have echoed through these streets. Indeed, market day would have had a carnival atmosphere. The war memorial and market lie in the middle of the street with the street on either side. We continued on our walk and came to bigger houses that stood alone before turning onto Church Street to the right leading to Saint James Church. We passed the Alms Houses, originally built for the poor, and the Eight Bells Inn on the way to the church.

Saint James Church, like many other churches, is built on the site of an older church, in this case a Norman church prior to 1180. Since that time the building has been changed many times. The bell tower had eight bells to call parishioners to worship. The oldest dated to 1637, but they were recast in 1987, The originals were stored, like the clock mechanism, which was installed in 1695 and replaced in 1962. Saint James is referred to as a “wool church”, because it was built from the wealth of the wool business. While we were looking around the church and cemetery we heard the bleat of sheep and, sure enough, beside and behind the church were a flock of sheep.

We continued our walk until the street intersected High Street, and with a left turn it led us back to the Volunteer Inn. Shopkeepers were getting ready for another business day by sweeping in front of their shops and hanging out the “Open” signs. But everything in the village looked clean and fresh as washed by the heavy morning mist.

Since we would soon be on the road again we opted for a full English breakfast. The size of the meal reminded me of the “lumberjack” breakfast of the Adirondacks or my mother’s “sawmill” breakfast. There were sausages in big links, eggs, bacon, white beans, grilled tomatoes, hash brown potatoes, and fried bread. English bacon tends to be back bacon which is very lean, much like ham, and not the American variety which comes from pork bellies. A variety of jellies, marmalades, and fruit preserves are served to spread the fried bread. Needless to say a large pot of tea is served as the beverage of choice.

We packed up, checked out, tossed our bags in the car and continued on highway B4081. Chipping Campden definitely became one of those places on “the most likely to revisit” list.

Additiona Information

Pedal to the Metal

2011-08-13T16:30:00.058-04:00

What was the greatest chase film in the movies: Bullitt, The French Connection or Ronin? Of course, there have been many other chase scenes in movies as well, but were they as good as these three?

The chase scene in Bullitt, the police drama made in 1968, has often been the scale by which chase scenes in the movies are measured. Why not? There is a lot of action in this nearly ten minute sequence. What does it have that others don’t? Most chases in films are in cities or perilous roads. Bullitt certainly qualifies there, as it is set in the city of San Francisco. The French Connection was shot on the crowded streets of New York. But, some of the chase scenes in Ronin are on the perilous highways of southern France and the cities of Nice and Paris.

Could it be the automobiles? The cars featured in Bullitt were a Ford Mustang and a Dodge Charger, both high-performance automobiles in 1968 and are quite a contrast to Popeye Doyle’s 1971 Pontiac Lemans sedan in The French Connection. For the most part, in Ronin, the automobiles used were powerful European touring sedans: Mecedes-Benz, Audi and BMW. All chases are at high speeds. In Bullitt the Mustang of Steve McQueen reached speeds of over 100 mph on the streets of San Francisco. This was the first film in which high speed chases were shot in real time. Previously chase scenes were “speeded up” in the camera. Speeds of over 80 mph were reached by the sedan in The French Connection, and the cars were equally fast in Ronin. Particularly in Ronin the lack of a music soundtrack emphasized the sound of powerful engines.

Another thing these chase scenes in all three movies have in common is that they hit other cars, and in the case of Ronin, wipe out vegetable markets. We get to enjoy the sound of tearing and crunching metal as cars bang into each other.

There is only one thing that separates Bullitt from the other films: air. In this film the automobiles are constantly airborne as the chase occurs in the hills of the city by the bay. This doesn’t happen in the other two films.

What is the greatest chase scene in cinema? You be the judge.

The French Connection

Ronin

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INTERESTING FILM FACTS
*The stunt driver of the Popeye Doyle car in The French Connection was the driver of Dodge Charger in Bullitt
*Two Mustangs and two Chargers were used in Bullitt with suspension modifications.
*Skipp Suddeth (Larry) in Ronin asked for the Audi to be equipped with nitrous.
*In 2008 Ford Motor Company introduced a Mustang "Bullitt Edition" in the signature green color celebrating the 40th anniversary of the film
*Bullitt and The French Connection have the same producer.

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THE AUTOMOBILES IN THE FILMS
Bullitt--1968 Mustang 390 engine--1968 Dodge Charger 440 engine
The French Connection -- 1971 Pontiac Lemans
Ronin -- Audi S8 D2 , BMW M5 E34, Mercedes-Benz 450SEL 6.9,a rare Mercedes-Benz W116

Vegie What?

2011-08-06T19:59:00.003-04:00

As I grow older I’m becoming more aware of the changes in my life. Am I getting to know myself? So far I like me all right, but some changes are causing a little alarm. For example: I think I may be a vegetarian. I seem to have some latent tendencies in that direction. In my heart I’m a grits ’n’ gravy guy. I was born below the Mason-Dixon Line, and the blood of those who wore the grey at Gettysburg runs through my veins. But recently I ate at a vegetarian restaurant, and…I liked it. Fortunately, we were on vacation, and no one that saw me knew who I was. Have you ever noticed what kind of people you see in vegetarian restaurants? They usually wear handmade jewelry and Birkenstocks, and they are always slim. For some reason I have an innate distrust of skinny people. But, there I was at the corner table eating a grilled tofu sandwich while non-country music was playing in the background.

Think about it. What is tofu? It is bean curd made from soybean milk. The whole idea is kind of crazy. One could question how one would milk a soybean, but I guess that would be utterly ridiculous. Curdling, I think, is another word for spoiling or “going bad”. I know this explanation of tofu sounds a bit unsavory, but I liked the taste of the grilled bean curd! This sandwich had black bean spread, bean sprouts, and other unmentionables, but the tomatoes and lettuce I recognized. Now I like beans; butter beans or string beans cooked all day with a piece of fatback. I don’t like bean sprouts. Bean sprouts are beans on the way to becoming bean plants and are harvested before reaching the plant stage. It’s similar to an abortion of the vegetable kind. I don’t think that’s very Christian.

But I like meat; beef, pork, poultry or wild game. I mean, that’s what men eat. You wouldn’t see Sly Stallone ordering black bean cakes, or, can you imagine Bruce Willis asking the cook not to leave his tofu on the grill too long? And would Duke Wayne have ever said, “I’ll have that hummus on pita bread, Little Lady.”? I don’t think so.

But, what should I do?

I will remain a closet vegetarian…I already have Birkenstocks!

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Some Items You May see in a Vegetarian Restuarant

ciabatta-a type of open-textured bread made with olive oil
falafel-an appetizer or snack consisting of a small croquette made with fava-bean flour or ground chick peas, seasoned with toasted sesame seeds and salt, often served in pita bread.
pesto-a sauce typically made with basil, pine nuts, olive oil, and grated Parmesan blended together and served hot or cold over pasta, fish, or meat.
mole-a spicy sauce flavored with chocolate, usually served with turkey or chicken.
tahini-a paste made of ground sesame seeds.
chapatti-a flat pancakelike bread, usually of whole-wheat flour, baked on a griddle.
chickpea-Also called garbanzo. a widely cultivated plant, Cicer arietinum, of the legume family, bearing pods containing pealike seeds.
tempeh-a fermented soybean cake.

Of Bed and Breakfasts

2011-07-29T05:29:00.002-04:00

“Will ye be havin’ kippers for breakfast?” he asked. We said we would although my travelmate did have some misgivings. Kevin told us of the breakfast time and the menu as we checked into the charming bed and breakfast on Loch Alsh in Scotland. We had driven across the bridge to the Isle of Skye and had had an enjoyable afternoon discovering the back roads and interesting sights of the island earlier. We climbed the stairs to our room on the second floor. It was large and comfortable with a bay window overlooking the loch. From the window our car, a Mercedes 130, also known as “the baby Benz”, was in full view. You get kind of a secure feeling when you can see your car from your room. The bathroom nest door was huge with a claw-foot tub as well as shower. We prefer staying in bed and breakfasts when traveling for a number of reasons. First, they are usually less expensive. Secondly, you get to enjoy the company of your host. Thirdly, casual interaction with other guests and the atmosphere is much more relaxing. There is also accessibility. Frequently small villages do not have a hotel but have bed and breakfasts. This B & B in Scotland was certainly a treat.

Staying at bed and breakfasts you get to know the natives. In Scotland we found that Kevin was a musician and showed us his collection of stringed instruments. In Kinsale, Ireland, my travelmate had much in common with our hostess there. They both had become widows. Near Newcastle, our host told us,”You must visit Durham, it had the first cathedral to use flying buttresses in England.” Durham wasn’t on our list of places to see but we went there and thoroughly enjoyed the city. While in Homer, Alaska, our host regaled us with stories of stalking the mountain goats on the frozen slopes of the Alaskan mountains. We sat in front of a roaring fire with mugs of hot chocolate under the watchful eye of the mounted goats head on the wall.

The dwellings themselves are not without certain charms. One such place was the Parson’s Purse in Cody, Wyoming, which had once been a Methodist church. In Vaison la Romaine, France, our lodging had once been an olive oil producing mill. Our lodging in Vernon, France, was a three-hundred-year-old town house. It had high ceilings with antique furnishings and fixtures. The house we stayed in Londonderry, Northern Ireland, had a deck with a panoramic view of the walled city of Derry. The owner had a great display of Pinocchio memorabilia including a four-foot-tall marionette. Many of these lodgings were old and in most the heat is turned off at ten o’clock in the evening. But in the British Isles you can always depend on the ubiquitous tea pot! A spot of tea will warm you up.

We met many interesting house guests in our travels. Breakfast is the only meal usually served as the name of the lodging implies and usually all lodgers eat together. In Alaska we met a nine-year-old boy of native and Minnesotan descent who could not wait to get back to checking his trap line in the frozen North. And there was the Israeli doctor in France who had gotten a heart transplant at the Mayo Clinic and had a son in the Israeli Air Force.

As we continue our travels we will continue to utilize bed and breakfasts as our favorite means of lodging. I can’t wait to see what we can find in Spain, Italy and beyond!

Turkey Shoot

2011-07-27T18:43:00.000-04:00

It was a cold Saturday morning in November when my daddy asked me ”How would you like to go to a turkey shoot?”

“Yessiree, I’ll be ready in a minute!” I answered.

“Just you be sure the wood box is full. We don’t want your mama goin’ out in the cold for wood,” Daddy said.

“I’ll get ‘er done,” I said as I jumped from my chair at the breakfast table.

“Y’all be careful,” Mama said. Mama always worried about something.

I hurriedly checked the wood box and got my gun from over my bedroom door. It was a single shot Iver Johnson 16 gauge shotgun Daddy had given me last year when I was eight years old. I grabbed a box of shotgun shells, and I was ready. I got my coat and cap, and I was sitting on the running board of the pick-up when Daddy got there.

Daddy drove down the red dirt road until we came to the highway which would lead us to the town of Bradley, South Carolina. I guess there wasn’t much to Bradley as for as towns go. There were two stores, a post office, a school, and about a dozen houses. It didn’t even have a caution light. The railroad went down the middle of town. Mama said when she was younger there were more stores, and people would catch the train there to go to Greenwood to work. But the train didn’t stop there any more except to get a cold Pepsi at one of the stores.

A big crowd had gathered behind the concrete block store of Cecil Thompson’s. I recognized most of the trucks and cars. Most of them were rather old and some kind of banged up. But there was one big car. Daddy said it was Mr. Mack Johnson’s Cadillac. Mr. Mack had a lot of land and several tenant farmers like us. He was also a lawyer in Greenwood. I had not seen him many times before. I remember he was at Grandpa’s funeral. We parked the truck close by and walked over to the group behind the store.

There was a low table with a rifle laying on it, and about one hundred feet away was a target nailed to a pine tree. The target was just an “X” drawn on a piece of writing paper. Daddy said that the winner would the shooter who hit the target closest to the center of the “X”. We went inside the store to look at the turkey in the cooler, and we knew that it would look good on our table come Thanksgiving. We always had a big hen for Thanksgiving dinner, and it would be nice to have turkey.

Mr. Thompson was in charge of the turkey shoot. Mama always told me to call him “Mr.” although she referred to him as “old man Thompson”. I think it had something to do with his wooden leg, and Daddy told me I would understand why she called him that when I got older. He said everybody would shoot one shot at a time and that the cost would be ten cents per shot. I felt that big half dollar in my pocket and knew that I could shoot at least five times. Mr. Thompson had figured out a way to judge the accuracy of rifle and shotgun shots equally so that the type of gun used would not be a disadvantage. The morning erupted with gunfire, and everyone was having good spirited fun. Several of the boys from school were there, and we were having our own competition among ourselves. Mr. Mack had this beautiful imported rifle with a telescopic sight on it. I had only seen one of these in the Sears-Roebuck catalog. He could really shoot it, too. Every shot would be right in the center of the “X”. I had not noticed them until now, but the Miller boys, John and Nate, were there. I looked around and sure enough that old fenderless bicycle of theirs with the patched tire was leaning up against the side of the store. Nate was the oldest, my age, but smaller and thinner than me. He was right strong though; we had wrestled before at recess. His brother was a little bigger and wore thick eyeglasses that were taped together with adhesive tape. John was carrying an old .22 rifle. It was rusty and had the barrel fastened to the stock with black electrical tape. He gave the gun to Nate and dug into his patched overalls for a dime and a bullet. The boys were dressed in ill-fitting clothes, probably hand-me-downs from some of the folks at church. Mama said that their daddy, Jimbo Miller, wasn’t anything but a drunk that spent most of the time in jail. She said she didn’t see what a nice sweet girl like Wynona had ever seen in him. Daddy said that the Millers’ business was their own, and Mama shouldn’t be talking about ‘em. Anyhow, Nate had paid his money and was about to shoot that old rifle. Nate steadied his rifle with his elbow on the low table and took careful aim before squeezing the trigger. The sound of the rifle echoed off the side of the building, and the bullet hit the target at the intersection of the two lines on the target. Mr. Thompson sent one of the younger boys to bring the target back for all to see.

“I believe we have a winner,” announced Mr. Thompson.

“Let me see that!” Mr. Mack demanded, and after looking at the target said, “Yeah, it’s good, but not quite as good as my shot!”

Daddy spoke up and said, “Let’s see your target, Mr. Mack.”

“I’ve thrown it away, but I know it was better. Y’all doubtin’ my word?” Mr. Mack’s face started to turn red.

“No, we just want to see who’s the winner,” said one of the men.

“I know my rifle is better, and I’m a better shot than that. Cecil, put up another target.”Mr. Mack said as he took the custom rifle from its beautiful carved leather case.

Mr. Mack worked the action of the big rifle to load a cartridge into the chamber. He aimed carefully and fired. The rifle jumped in the big man’s hands and made a loud noise and the bullet made a large hole in the center of the target.

“See that, boys! That’s how a winner shoots!” Mr. Mack seemed to be bragging.

There were murmurs in the crowd about how great it was.

Mr. Mack looked down at little Nate and said, “Your turn boy!”

“We ain’t got another dime, Mr. Mack.”

“Cecil, here’s a dollar, let the boy shoot.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Mack.”

Nate went through the same routine, and the little rifle cracked once more. Mr. Thompson's boy brought the target back for all to see, and there was only the big hole in the center.

“See, he didn’t even hit the target! There’s just one hole in the target and that’s mine!” the big man said with a big grin on his face.

“Maybe the boy’s bullet went inside your bullet hole. After all, a .22 is much smaller that your .30 caliber,” Daddy said.

“Yea, that’s right,” someone else said.

“All right, all right, we’ll do it again,” Mr. Mack said in frustration.

Once again a target was put up on the old pine tree, but this time Nate shot first and then Mr. Mack shot.

“Look here,” somebody said as they crowded around the target, “Mr. Mack done got beat!”

“He shore did!” somebody else echoed.

“It can’t be!” said the lawyer in a loud voice.

“Look at the target. The boy’s bullet hit right in the center but this big bullet hole is off to the side!” Mr. Thompson said.

“You all felt that wind didn’t you? That’s why my shot was off a little. The wind moved the target. Any fool could have seen that!” said the big man as his face was getting red.

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. We’ll shoot one more time, and if I don’t beat the boy, I’ll give him this rifle.” A hush fell over the crowd ,and they heard Mr. Mack add, “No white trash boy’s going to show me up!”

You would have thought we were in church by how quiet the crowd of fellows was behind Thompson’s store that day. Hardly anyone breathed as the shooters got ready.

Nate shot first again. The little rifle cracked, and a bullet hole appeared exactly where the two lines crossed on the target. Then the big rifle roared, and a large bullet hole appeared about one half inch from the first bullet hole in the target secured by four nails.

The big man said not a word but threw the big rifle at the feet of the boy in ragged clothes. Then, he pushed his way through the crowd to his car, and we expected to hear it roar away. But, to our surprise, he came back and picked up the rifle.

“I’ll buy it back from you, boy!” he said as he pulled a roll of money from his hunting pants pocket. I watched him peel off twenty one-hundred dollar bills from a roll and throw them at Nate. Nobody spoke as we heard the big Cadillac roar off down the road.

Well, we didn’t win the turkey, but I knew there was a big fat hen in the barnyard for Thanksgiving. I had been to my first turkey shoot and would attend many more through the years, but I would never forget the first one. The next year the county consolidated all the country schools into the city schools and I lost touch with the Miller boys.

Some forty odd years later I was in Barnes and Noble looking at some books and drinking a decaf mocha when I found myself in the military book section. I had been reading some of W.E.B. Griffin’s military novels and decided to try some non-fiction. I picked up a paperback off the shelf by the title: The Corps' Greatest Rifleman and underneath was a photograph of a Marine in camouflage uniform. His was of slight build and his face was in shadow but I recognized the face as Nate’s.

The Last Bastion of American Enterprise

2011-07-15T16:25:00.000-04:00

“V nickels? Buy or sell?” he asked as he bumped into me. He was rather short with grey stubble covering his friendly face under the flop hat. The little man had on faded bib overalls and high top shoes, but his most noticeable feature was his eyes. They were cloudy white where mine and yours have color. Yes, he was either blind or very near being sightless. Clutched in his hand was a roll of nickels. I told him I wasn’t interested, and he went on his way.

This was my first venture into America’s last bastion of free enterprise, the flea market. It is the purest form of modern commerce. There are no regulations, no taxes, policies, just free enterprise at the grassroots level. I’ve long been a fan of flea markets, sometimes called jockey lots. The term flea market we get from the French. It seems that fleas were commonly found in used clothes and bedding. I’m not sure where the term jockey lot comes from. I’ve been a buyer and seller at flea markets. To me it is the land of colorful characters, not to mention an endless variety of merchandise.

Recently, I overheard this conversation.

“It puts out 50,000 volts and that packs quite a wallop”, he said.

“Will that stop somebody attacking me?” she asked.

“Ma’am, if that don’t stop ‘em, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop ‘em short of a bullet!” he said.

“How much is it? She asked.

I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as someone started up a weed eater nearby, and I began looking at a 12 gauge shotgun for sale by a lady at the table next in the row. She said that it was made in the late 1800’s and could have been; the action was very loose. A few tables further down some fellows told me that the gun wasn’t what she claimed. I wasn’t interest at the price level at which she was selling it. As I walked along I deftly picked up a butterfly knife from a seller’s table and flipped the knife open with one quick, easy motion. The flash of sunlight off the seven inch blade caught the vendor’s eye.

“Every time I try that I cut myself,” he said.

“Yes, but they cause nothing but trouble!” I responded.

“But, you’re pretty fast!”

“Even the more reason I should leave it here,” I said as a lay the knife back down.

There’s an old song by Arlo Guthrie that says; “You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant”. But, Arlo hadn’t been to the flea market. I am always amazed at the variety of products. The root doctors are quite interesting. They have the remedies for what ails you. Some of them remind me of my grandmother’s. Some believe in those back woods medicines or, more properly known as folk medicine. Who is to say the yellow root and willow root aren’t medicinal, and I must have sassafras for tea. I haven’t seen any root doctors in the Carolina low country like there is in Anderson and Pickens counties.

The Anderson Jockey Lot is the largest in the southeast with over 1,000 vendors. It was once fairly small but grew into an outdoor Wal-Mart with prices about the same on some items. I like to get out away from the sheltered areas to where people just put their goods out in front of their truck and sell. Sometimes it is pure junk, but sometimes… I bought a black tea set that polished out as silver plate. My wife loved it. I missed buying a pair of slave leg irons, I didn’t know exactly what they were when I saw them. At a flea market in France I saw a Thompson submachine gun, but I thought I would never get it through Customs if I bought it. Flea markets are great for people who collect things. Whether it’s comic books or Hot Wheels cars, you can usually find some at the flea market. I usually buy used tools. Good quality tools last practically forever, and new ones are expensive.

There are the vegetable vendors with local and other produce. This also includes chickens, ducks, quail, and pigs. I remember one vender in particular who sold his produce by the bag. You could hear him call out, “Vegetables, two dollars a bag. Just put something in the bag, lady! Just put something in the bag!” He sold a lot of vegetables. Frequently, the grower would be selling his own crop. Somehow you get that extra connection to the land when you buy it from the man that grew it. Seafood is commonly for sale locally at the Ladson Flea market. Fresh fish and shellfish abound, sold by Vietnamese fishermen. Puppies, kittens, birds and other pets are for sale as well. I’m not real crazy about the reptiles, but different strokes for different folks. There are fighting chickens for sale too but you have to be careful who you ask about them. A fighting cock which has won a number of derbies can demand an unbelievable high price. It is illegal to fight chickens in South Carolina but not to raise and train them.

I have a lot of fun bargaining for the things I buy. I My rule number one is never pay the asked price. I will either buy it cheaper or not buy. Many times I’ve walked away only to come back to the same vendor and buy at my price. Toward the close of the day the prices on everything go down. Of course, you take a chance on not finding what you want late in the day. There are some caveats; the merchandise may be stolen or counterfeit, and there are no guarantees.

Some flea markets, like the one in Pickens, SC, have a band that performs when the market is open. I’m not sure if there are more than two or three regular band members. But there always seems to be at least five players. In true string band fashion there are guitars, mandolins, banjos, Dobros, harmonicas, and washtub bass. They seem to be mostly octogenarians. Once I saw a very thin old woman dressed in faded clothes playing a banjo and singing. She had a kerchief around her head and wore a man’s faded flannel shirt. Upon her feet were tennis shoes and white socks. The banjo she played was an old homemade gourd one with a head that probably was once the skin of a tom cat. The knarled hands played the instrument claw hammer style and her voice had that high nasal twang. Her face showed the ravages of time, but her voice was clear as a bell as she sang the old songs of the mountains. She sang “Shady Grove” and “Wayfarin’ Stranger” and others before a wonderful version of Ralph Stanley’s “Gloryland”. The crowd was hushed as she sang “Gloryland” a cappella, the way it was recorded in the thirties. I had only heard it once before and that was at the Music Farm in Charleston. It was sung to a silent audience there as well. If you go to the Pickens County Flea Market you’ll hear some of the best bluegrass music right out of the hills, but I don’t know if the old woman of the mountain will be there.

I’m sure I’ll be at a flea market at the next opportunity but I don’t know which one, something about them just draws me back.

Ralph Stanley, born February 25, 1927 is the grand old man of bluegrass and old-time music. he started playing the banjo clawhammer style as a teenager and with this brother formed the band "The Clinch Mountain Boys". He contunues to perform today. He re orded "O Death" for the soundtrack of the popular Coen Brothers movie, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?"

Bacon

2011-07-10T21:44:00.000-04:00

M-m-m! Bacon! Pork belly deluxe! Recently the Charleston Post and Courier did an article on making your own bacon. I sorta had a flashback to the days of my youth.

On a cold November day when you could make smoke with your breath I would be up at daylight or a little before. It was my job to get the cast iron wash pots filled with water and the fires built under them to get the water hot. All the water was drawn from a shallow rock lined well by hand. By the time I had this done the rest of the family was up and moving around the house. Neighbors were beginning to arrive. Butchering a hog is a labor intensive process. It was mostly men from the neighboring farms. A couple of women came along. During this hog killing time of year neighbors would go from farm to farm butchering hogs. But I only got to be part of one hog killing and that was the one at home.

Daddy picked up the old .22 rifle, grabbed a butcher knife and we headed to the hog pen. Along the way I harnessed a mule to a small sled. Uncle Jack and I joined Daddy. Daddy was a big man and a good shot with a rifle. He always had the job of killing the hog. The hog was a big one; about 300 pounds.

He said, “If you make like there’s line from the hogs left eat to his right eye and a line from his right ear to the left eye and shoot ‘em where the lines cross, the hog will drop every time.” It must have been true, because they always dropped. Daddy had a gun misfire once and almost got bit by a big hog. Hogs are the only domestic animal that will eat either meat or vegetables and they aren’t very particular about where either come from.

As soon as the hog was killed, Daddy would jump the fence and cut the hog’s throat so it would bleed. I watched the steam rise from the spilled blood and sucked on my skinned knuckle. Uncle Dewey saw me and said, “It’s just skin, Boy! It’ll grow back.” The grizzled, scrawny, seventy-five-year-old spit tobacco juice out between his missing teeth and grinned. He always called me, “Boy”. Daddy always called me , “Son” or “Dan”. I don’t know where he got the “Dan” from, he called my brother that too. Neither of us was named “Dan”.

At twelve-years-old I gave it my all as we wrestled the 300 lb hog onto the sled and took it to the backyard to butcher it. But before you could start gutting the hog, hair or bristles had to be removed. And that’s where the boiling water came into play. We had a 55 gallon drum halfway buried in the ground at a 45 degree angle. I filled the drum up about half-full while Daddy and the other men used a hoist to get the hog off the sled. We would hang the hog from a tree branch over the drum of hot water so we could lower it into the drum. The hot water would loosen the hair of the hog, and we could pull it off. I got right in there with the men pulling off handfuls of hog hair. The temperature was about freezing so the hot hair felt good on my hands. It would take several dunkings into the water to complete the job. Finally a corn shuck would be set afire and used to burn off any hair that was left. The hog looked shiny white when we had finished. With the hog hung from the tree limb the head was cut off. I carried it in a dish pan with those eyes looking up at me to the kitchen table we had brought outside for butchering the meat. The head was trimmed, eyes and brains removed, etc. Brains would be eaten with scrambled eggs for breakfast. I would never eat them. Mom would have breakfast ready for those eating throughout the morning. Then the whole head would be put in a pot and cooked until all the meat fell off the bone. Mama would then grind it up to make what we called souse meat. It would congeal in a loaf pan and would be sliced and be eaten with mustard and onion in a sandwich. I wasn’t real crazy about it. She’d make liver pudding from the liver. I didn’t like that either. The hanging hog was split down the middle and the entrails removed. The men pulling out the entrails got a chance to get their hands warm. Care was taken not to puncture an intestine. We wouldn’t want to spill hog feces everywhere. The liver and kidneys would be saved and large intestine would be cleaned up for chitlins. Sometimes the bladder would be blown up for the younger kids to use for a ball. Yeah, every part of the hog was used for something except maybe the squeal. After cleaning out the inside of the hog the back bone was cut out with an ax. Each half of the hog was cut up on the table. Each man had brought his own butcher knife, so by noon the hams, shoulders, ribs, and other cuts were done. A lot of work, like cutting up the backbone and ribs, was done with a sharp ax. When the table was covered with bloody scraps it was my job to pour a bucket of hot water over it to keep the tabletop clean. Another job of mine was to keep the dogs away. After all the major butchering was done it was time for making sausage, lard and getting meat ready for the smoke house.

Most of the neighbors left at noon, so the rest of the work was done by family members. Hams and shoulders were trimmed of excess fat and rubbed down with a mixture of salt, sugar and seasonings. The process was simple; the mixture was rubbed into the meat until it wouldn’t accept any more. It was then hung up in the smokehouse with a hickory smudge fire burning. The pork bellies were processed this way also and this would be sliced thin as bacon. In those days hogs were grown fat, and that fat would be rendered out as lard. The fat was cut into two-inch cubes and put into a wash pot. The fat is cooked out and the hot grease is strained through cheesecloth in to lard cans. These left over small pieces of fried meat are called cracklings and used in cornbread for extra flavor. Rendering out the lard is a time consuming process and I had to keep the fire burning hot and stir the fat occasionally with an axe handle. Making sausage is also very labor intensive. Normally we made the sausage from left over scraps of meat. We ground the meat by hand, usually twice. Salt, pepper and sage were usually added. Sometimes we stuffed some for link sausage to be smoked. My uncle made spicy sausage. You could see the huge flakes of cayenne pepper in the sausage.

By the time we finished the hog killin’ the sun had gone down and we had enough meat to last almost a year. And it would be a year before we would be making bacon again. Making bacon was a bit different in those days. But the meat had no additives and the hogs were free range, raised on acorns, corn and table scraps with no added growth hormones. When we needed bacon we went to the smoke house and cut off some of the smoked pork belly, bacon. And I think it tasted better.

Make Your Own Bacon - The Post and Courier

Once Upon A Time In The District

2011-07-07T12:45:00.000-04:00

It was a great trip to the District, Washington, D.C. We did not see the Smithsonian, Jefferson Memorial, White House, the Wall, or many more attractions. But, then, after all, that was not the purpose for our trip. We had a nice drive from Goose Creek, SC, to Fairfax, VA. Traffic wasn’t extremely heavy considering that we were on the east coast Armageddon of super highway travel, Interstate 95. We had spoken to the oldest son via cell phone and knew he was in route from New Jersey and the daughter from Georgia had called to say she was in a diner near the hotel. We checked in and were soon talking with the Arizona and California folks via telephone. Yes, the children were getting together with Mom. And I, well, I was Mom’s husband.

This trip was about family fun. When people are on both coasts it’s difficult to get them altogether. This trip had been in the planning stages for at least a year. We stayed at the same extended stay hotel except for the NJ contingent who stayed at Crystal City. We were only a mile from the Metro station, and that would be our major mode of transport around the area. I was surprised to find that all day parking was only $4.50. I think that was the only inexpensive thing we found there in the city.

It had been decided that we would go to Pizzeria Paradiso in Georgetown for dinner. We used our car to drive from Fairfax to Georgetown; the Acura was a bit roomier than the rental Chevy. We parked underneath a shopping mall and walked about a block back to the restaurant. We walked down two or three levels to the dining room where we were seated. The rest of our party met us there, and we had a table for ten. It was good to see everyone together for the first time in at least five years. I thought the food was a bit pricey, and service left a bit to be desired, but we enjoyed each other’s company. The sweet tooth crowd wanted to find a cupcake shop, and so our navigatrix found one close by using her cell phone. The line was out onto the sidewalk, and waiting is not my finest suit. Everyone enjoyed their favorite exotic cupcake before returning to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.

We were up early the next day but the not rest of our party. We had breakfast burritos in our room. At the Metro station we bought our “one-day” passes, which are good for any time of day except rush hour. Washington’s Metro is clean and modern and bigger than London’s tube but, unfortunately, several of the escalators were out of service.

We rode to Union Station and had lunch at a nearby Irish pub. Lunch was good, and Mark and Nathan joined us for our tour of the Capitol. One of the attractive interns from Senator Jim DeMint’s office led our tour of the capitol building. There were quite a few tourists on a weekday but not overly crowded. It is very inspiring and big. I found out that if the Statue of Liberty is placed inside the capitol rotunda, it would not reach the top!

We next visited the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. This is a great place for aerophiles like me. This was my second visit, so I was able to guide some of the newer visitors in our party around. I always learn something new at this museum. For example, the Airbus A380 is controlled by a joystick rather than the traditional yoke. Although this is a great museum, I find the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center at Chantilly better. The museum closes at 5:30, which seemed very early to me, but we did have time to get a soft serve ice cream which was a great treat for a hot day. Then, it was back to the sidewalk.

The group split up a bit as Nathan and Mark went to get Jen and meet us for dinner. According to one of the brochures we had, the American Art Museum was open until 7 p.m., so away we went. The George Ault show of 1940’s American paintings was very good. There is a good exhibit of folk art as well. I have mixed emotions about folk art. Much of the modern folk art is called outsider art. “Outsider” refers to the fact that the artists have no formal training.

Dinner was at a Mexican restaurant near all the Hispanic embassies. The food was great, and service was good, but it was extremely noisy. Dining was upstairs and open air. I thought the heat would be unbearable, but the overhead fans did their job. The place got a bad mark in my book for the life size cutouts of the President and First Lady by the entrance. Some members of our party even had their pictures taken with them. They are family. I still speak with them! By this time it was getting late and time to catch the Metro back to Fairfax. We got back to our room and watched some of the College World Series, and Carolina won. Although my blood runs orange I support those South Carolina teams in national competition.

The next day we did lunch in Crystal City: a hamburger restaurant in a mall. The brilliant designers had a clear glass roof over the dining area. It’s no fun to try to enjoy your food under intense heat. It was my least enjoyable meal.

We thought it would be a good day for a walk to the Lincoln Memorial. After a Metro ride, we exited at the station near George Washington University and began our walk. It took us by the Department of State, but I didn’t see Hillary Clinton anywhere. Kim, our navigatrix, kept us on track on this very warm walk. There was quite a crowd at the Memorial. Lincoln in his big chair is quite impressive up close. We had a good view of the Washington Monument without the benefit of a reflecting pool. The pool was empty for whatever reason.

After our visit to the memorial, which included a lot of walking, we were ready for the tearoom Kim had found, the Teasim Restaurant Penn Quarter. We had the afternoon tea menu: a selection of sandwiches, scones, tartlets, and other goodies with a pot of tea. There were a lot of Asian teas and menu items, but we stuck with Earl Grey and the traditional menu. We ate downstairs after getting our food. (No wait service here.) It was kind of cozy and quiet enough to carry on a good conversation. We spent about two hours in this place before saying good-bye to the New Jersey part of the family. They would not be joining us for dinner at Jaleo.

Jaleo, a Spanish restaurant, was a super treat. We had a reservation for 5:30 for an early dinner, because we had theater tickets for a 7:30 play. We had a good table for the seven of us by the window and the food and service were first class. The menu for the tapas style meal was in Spanish with English translations. My travelmate and I were excited about the Spanish food, since we will be visiting Spain in the fall. The arroz de pato, croquetas de pollo, dátiles con tocino ‘como hace todo el mundo’, butifarra casera con mongetes were all delicious, especially the dates wrapped in bacon and deep fried. We shared a carafe of sangria with Kim. It was the first sangria I had ever had with white wine.

The play was William Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice at the Shakespeare Theater Company. The production was superb. This version was set in the early 20th century with period music. I found it quite interesting and the Shakespearaholic I’m married to was ecstatic. We watched the film version starring Al Pacino as Shylock before our visit to familiarize ourselves with the story. It was a late train we took back to Fairfax with the requisite homeless person sleeping on the train.

Morning came early and we decided we would have breakfast together before going our separate ways. There were only seven of us, since part of the family had left earlier in the day. It was a good breakfast at the diner, and we said our good-bys and planned to meet in Chicago in 2013.

Pizzaria Paradiso
Teasim Restaurant
Jaleo
Other Picasa Photos from the trip.

I did not see Craig T. Nelson of The District anywhere.

Chateau de Versailles

2011-06-25T18:18:00.000-04:00

Now I’ve seen some fancy houses; Hearst Castle in northern California with its indoor/outdoor swimming pool and North Carolina’s Biltmore House built by the Vanderbilts with its bowling alley in the basement. And I’ve seen some castles in the British Isles. But never have I seen anything to even come close to the opulence of Versailles in France, or more correctly, Chateau de Versailles.

We had bought the Paris Museum Pass online which included admission to Versailles as well as other attractions. An early train out of Paris had us in the village of Versailles within an hour. The palace is about a half mile walk from the train station. There is no problem finding it; you just follow the crowds. Much to my dismay, in the parking lot were dozens of tour busses. After all it was Sunday morning. It was the “wrong day” to visit. It’s just impossible to schedule to see each attraction on the “right day”. However, since we had bought our tickets, we did not have to wait in the long line to buy a ticket and could enter immediately. After entering through the gate you enter the chateau on the right.

The first thing you notice is the vastness of the place. Its humble beginning was a hunting lodge in 1623 and it was expanded by various kings into what it is today. Louis the XIV was most responsible for the creation of the chateau as we know it today. Louis considered himself the “Sun King” and moved the seat of the French government to Versailles. He obviously had no small ego as represented by the hundreds of sculptures and paintings of him. The Chateau de Versailles castle has over 2,000 windows, 700 rooms, over 1,200 fireplaces, and 67 staircases. In 1837 King Louis-Phillipe made the palace a national museum and commissioned 3,000 works of art to adorn its walls.

As you move through the vast halls and rooms of the chateau you get a glimpse of life at the very top of the French social structure in the 18th century. One of the great halls is given to giant paintings of great moments in French history. As with all the art work the paintings are impressive. There is one thing I found quite distasteful: among the beautiful old artworks were modern Japanese sculptures. I thought they would have been more at home in Tate Modern in London or the MOMA in NY. We visited the royal apartments of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, the chapel, and Napoleon’s coronation room, but the most spectacular room was the Hall of Mirrors. The Galerie des Glaces is 250 feet long and has 17 arched mirrors facing the arched windows and the gardens beyond. It was also the room in which the Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1919 ending hostilities with Germany in WWI. Some say this treaty was the beginning of WWII.

We exited the chateau for an overview of the gardens. The Versailles gardens include around 1,300 fountains, which use water pumped from the River Seine. You can view a fountain show at a weekend from April until September. A Dutch couple took our picture and we did the same for them. (We do a lot of this while traveling.) We didn’t tour the gardens. That was a separate ticket, and we did not have the time. At such attractions as this you can spend hours, maybe days, looking at everything. The walk back to the train station was not crowded, a reprieve. We grabbed a café while waiting for the train.

I believe I’ve seen the house of houses, the mansion of mansions, the castle of castles, the palace of palaces and the chateau of chateaus. Chateau de Versailles!

StumbleUpon

2011-06-25T10:38:00.000-04:00

Have you tried StumbleUpon? It's a great browsing program. With StumbleUpon you chose your area of interest such as Arts,Literature,Movies etc. You can chose multiple interests. When you click Stumble the program finds those websites highlighting your interests. Stumble presents the webpages individually. Not interested? Just click "Stumble" and a new page appears! below is my StumbleUpon page. Just go to

StumbleUpon.com.

I think you'll like it.

Driving in France

2011-06-20T06:47:00.001-04:00

Driving in France was an adventure. I was to be the driver on this trip. It was decided after considering the budgetary constraints on our transportation cost that we would be renting an automobile with a manual transmission. I would have the driving duties. Our rental car was waiting for us in Rouen. We had found that a considerable savings could be realized by picking up rental cars at a location other than the train station. A five euro taxi ride saved us about €100. This was a rental from Hertz; most of the American rental companies are available in France as well as some European ones. We chose a compact Peugeot 206 with a diesel engine. Diesel fuel is only slightly cheaper, but the fuel mileage is considerably greater. This makes a diesel powered compact a very economical choice. I was a bit hesitant about choosing a diesel, but the little Peugeot had no difficulty keeping up with freeway traffic and was very quiet. Be aware that gas stations are not as common as they are in this country and that some of the pumps that take credit cards may not accept a credit card that doesn’t have a chip in it. Insurance is a must. We found that our Visa credit card on which we charged our rental also provided good insurance coverage. We once had the opportunity to test this insurance coverage when we had an accident in Great Britain, and there were no problems. When you pick up your rental car in France it is much the same as here. With the agent you check for dents or other possible defects in the car. In France be sure to check on the emergency accessories. Each vehicle in France must have an emergency triangle sign and a florescent safety vest for each occupant. If the proper authorities catch you without these you can be fined.

Driving can be interesting, but it is great to drive in the right hand lane. Some of the rules of the road are slightly different. Traffic signs are different but not so different that you can't understand them. Turning right on red is illegal. There are few “stop” signs but there are traffic circles galore. It is good to know that you can ride around the traffic circle until you decide which exit is the right one for you. This may sound ridiculous, but consider that you can enter a traffic circle on a specifically numbered highway, but there is no exit for that highway number. It is always best to follow destination signs rather than road numbers. For example, drivers following the N13 south from Cherbourg lose it at Caen, as it becomes the D 613 thereafter! From Evreux to Mantes the "N 13" signs reappear, but after that it's the D 113. Get a good regional map. We used a road map of the entire country, and it simply did not show enough detail. Services such as AAA can provide the maps you need. On some occasions we were able to download Yahoo maps to our iPod for reference. If you are going through a large city get a city map. It often seems that street signage is for people who know where they are, and there is no consistency in street sign location. Unfortunately, sometimes you get misplaced or disoriented (somehow these words sound better than “lost”) and you just have to trust your judgment and be thankful that you did buy fuel at the last opportunity. We once spent two hours in the Pyrenees Mountains and found ourselves at our original starting point! We also found out that you should blow your horn when entering a blind curve to let people know you are coming. Some of these curves were so sharp that you would run on to the shoulder of the road as you navigated around the curve. My travelmate said that if her side of the car had had brakes we would still be in the mountains!

The quality of French roads is great, better than those of Britain. They range from the four-lane superhighways to the narrow one-lane mountain roads. Almost all the superhighways are toll roads. They are a great timesaver, unless you like a leisurely drive in the French countryside. We like both. Be aware that the toll booths are usually automated and if you have a problem you may be speaking to an attendant remotely who doesn’t understand your language. This happened to us once. Like many toll roads when entering you get a ticket and upon exit you insert it into the machine at the exit and it tells you what you owe. You can pay by coin or credit card. In our case it would not accept our card. Fortunately a young man in an Audi behind us saw our dilemma and came to our rescue. By communicating in French to the off-site attendant he found that the machine was not reading our ticket correctly. Thank heavens for good Samaritans. The speed limit on the toll roads is 130 kph which is about 80 mph. It’s interesting to see a passenger train pass you at this speed when near a railway. Some of the French trains reach speeds nearing 200 mph. The left lane on the four-lane is for passing only. You don’t see people driving mile after mile in the left lane like you do here. We found most French drivers very courteous. They never blew their horn at me unless I deserved it. On two occasions I deserved it. Also be aware that in some areas the roads are frequently used by agricultural equipment. I remember that in the Provence area of France the roads were almost clogged with small tractors pulling wagons full of grapes. There seems to be a great many bicyclists on the rural roads as well. These are the people that are helmeted and in spandex uniforms on expensive racing machines. I saw few bike lanes as these would-be Tour de France participants crowded the roads in some areas.

Parking seems to be a problem everywhere. There is little free parking in France. Only in the smallest villages and Vaison la Romaine did we see free parking. There were no parking meters. There was a machine from which to buy a ticket to display on your dash showing how much parking time you bought. It was a good reason to keep a few €1 coins handy. One interesting thing to note is that we never saw a machine that would allow you to purchase a full day of parking; the most you could get was six hours. This presented a problem for us in Villefranche-sur-mer when we were leaving the car for a day trip by train. However, a helpful desk clerk took care of this for us. We were going to Nice, and the Sunday afternoon before I had all the Nice traffic I could handle. Had I been a good Catholic I would have been in confession bright and early. After checking into our hotel in the Dordogne valley the desk clerk told me I only had to pay for parking ‘til five o’clock. The signs indicated that it should be paid ‘til six, but she said that the policeman went home at five. It pays to be friendly with the “locals”. In some cities parking is free on Sunday. Don’t take chances; the police will tow cars away for parking violations. As anywhere, exercise care when driving.

Although the French have had a notoriously bad accident record (around twice the number of fatal accidents per head of population in 2001 when compared with the UK or Japan) the government is making efforts to reduce the accident levels. This has meant increased use of radar - particularly common during the beginning and end of holiday periods - and stricter laws on alcohol.

Driving in France was an enjoyable experience and I’d do it again. Next time I’d get a car with a GPS navigation system or carry my own.

Cowboy Songs

2011-06-13T21:30:00.003-04:00

I have always like the western films and like wise I'm fond of almost anything "cowboy". Here I've put together some of my favorite cowboy songs. Performer-wise they pretty much run the gamut. Included are the singing cowboys of the movies, Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. Who can forget the string of western hits Marty Robbins had. Wasn't that a great quartet of Johnny Cash, Kris Kristopherson, Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings? The Sons of the San Joaquin tell the story better than I can.

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I couldn't resist this Roy and Trigger video. Boy did I think this was cool way back when. Yes, I wanted to grow up to be a cowboy.

Where is Jack?

2011-06-12T22:57:00.003-04:00

We were in the Green River area of northern Utah and had been driving most of the day in the dry hilly country. We had gone north and into the state of Wyoming through natural gas fields watched over by golden eagles before reentering Utah on primitive roads and the valley of the Green river in this area of the America where Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado meet. This particular area is called Brown's Park.We had driven across a suspension bridge on the Green River. The movement of the bridge was not noticeable in the car but if you walked across the bridge the swinging movement was quite noticeable. The weight limitations of the bridge were posted in number of sheep. A rough gravel road skirted the river and we eventually reached the historic Jarvie property on the Green River which provides a glimpse of life in the turn-of-the–century west. This is Bureau of Land Management land. John Jarvie, a native of Scotland, had settled the property in the 1881 after selling his business interests in Wyoming. He had become a naturalized citizen in 1875 and picked this spot on the Green River which had been a crossing for wild animals and Native Americans for centuries to build his home, trading post and other business enterprises which would include a ferry service, general store, post office, liquor distillery and other services.

There are a number of structures here, a reproduction of a general store, an original stone house, a blacksmith shop and an underground house. We parked in the nearby parking lot and began to look around the site. We first entered the one room stone house, measuring 18 X 20 feet, which was full of relics of pioneer times and told of the history of the property. The stone house was built by outlaw John, “Judge”, Bennett utilizing skills learned in prison at the request of John Jarvie. Interestingly, inside the house is a post left from the scaffold used to hang Judge Bennett. Bennett's claim to fame is that he was the only person hung in Brown's Park. A few feet away we visited the replica general store and found that the original owner, John Jarvie, had been murdered in 1906 during a robbery of the original store. John sold the whiskey he made in the store. In the early 1900's he was charged with selling whiskey without a license. During the court proceedings the jury was given a sample of the beverage in question. They reported that the beverage wasn't good enough to be considered whiskey and Jarvie was found not guilty. The general store also was the dwelling for John Jarvie his wife, Nellie, and their four sons.

It is beautiful here by the river with big cottonwood trees providing shade. You can close your eyes and can almost hear the thunder of horses’ hooves and smell the cooking fires of a pioneer settlement A little over one hundred years ago this settlement was on the infamous “Outlaw Trail” which reached from Mexico to Canada. Yes, such notables as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid frequented these parts. Butch and the Kid had an interesting technique for robbery getaways. They would have fresh horses waiting for them at twenty mile intervals along their escape route. In those days regular folk did not consider robbing the railroad barons much of a crime and often offered sanctuary to these robbers.

While visiting we met the resident ranger, Frank Tankersley, who led us around the property and told us all about it. At the blacksmith shop and corral John showed us how the rustlers could change brands on livestock after rustling them. By adding an addition to the existing brand the brand could be changed allowing the rustlers to claim stolen cattle as their own. The corral and blacksmith shop had been built from railroad ties that had floated down the river from Wyoming.

Frank led us into the two room underground house in which the newlyweds, John and Nellie Jarvie, set up housekeeping. Nellie had been born in the British Isles. She and John were known to have beautiful singing voices. John was a true renaissance man who was also a talented organ and concertina player as well as a well known local poet. He was quite an athlete as well and frequently challenged younger men to foot races. This dugout was built by the big red-headed Englishman, Bill Lawrence. It is built facing south west toward the river. Over the sturdy door is a rack of deer antlers. As I entered, following Claudette and Frank, I ducked my head due to the low ceiling. The one hundred year old cedar rafters still hold up the earth roof. The walls are of heavy wood of hand-hewn or rip sawn timber. As we looked around, John pointed out the features and furniture of the compact living quarters such as the cord bed and various cabinets for storage. The wood-burning cook stove looked a lot like the one my grandmother used. Based on the size of the custom-built home, I don’t believe that John and Nellie were tall people. I had to walk stooped over and I’m only six feet tall. Frank told us that after the Jarvies had moved into their house passing outlaws frequently used the dugout when hiding out from the local lawmen. Maybe Butch and Sundance had stood hiding exactly where we were and listened for pursuing lawmen to pass them by. During Frank’s description of the living quarters he mentioned another resident.

“I haven’t seen Jack today,” said Frank.

“And who is Jack?” I asked.

“He’s a snake about four feet long,” answered Frank as he gestured the length with outstretched hands.

We decided that our house tour was over.

The Jarvie Property in northern Utah is one of the best pioneer homesteads we visited.

MORE

* A photograph of John Jarvie

          *A photograph of the Sundance Kid and his girlfriend, Etta Place

          *A photograph of Butch and Sundance and the Wild Bunch

          *The movie trailer from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid".

          *Jarvie Property in Utah

Monkfish and Cockles

2011-06-09T19:50:00.000-04:00

We were going to walk along the east bank of the Thames to the Tate Modern museum and back across the river via the Millennium Bridge. Having just finished our lunch of bangers and mash with mushy peas we were looking forward to the walk for exercise. Little did we know that we would be wander into an incredible display of food at the Borough Market. I have a fondness for outdoor markets. There is always an array of fresh and delightful foodstuffs and they seem to offer sort of a cross section of local culture.

The Borough Market is located beneath the railroad tracks between the river Thames and Borough High Street. Some of the covered area has a Victorian look about it with soaring ceilings with ornate iron supports and clear glass. The vendors or traders as they are called have their designated small spaces usually fronted by a table. There are two distinct markets within the Borough Market; the Jubilee Market which is newly covered and the Green Market. The market is open Thursday and Friday afternoons and all day on Saturday. A market has existed here since the 12th century and reflects the diversity food products of the once vast British empire.

As you wander these walkways you’re overcome by the variety of the products where freshness abounds. Many products are sold by their producers and straight from the farms. Seafood is just hours removed from the sea and you can almost feel the pulse of fresh hung meats. As in any unfamiliar place there are new things never before seen. And, by the way, there are also those things to taste. Free samples abound. There are also methods of food presentation which I had not seen before such as melting cheese before eating it. Here you find those odd and unusual vegetables and fruits not to mention creatures from the sea and land. Some vendor persons also fit into the odd and unusual category as well. All of this adds up to an interesting travel experience and for the artist or photographer it is a visual treat to record and remember.

I recommend the Borough Market in London as a great way to enjoy an hour or so and to introduce yourself to the pulse of the London food market.

From Wikipedia...
Raclette is also a dish indigenous to parts of Switzerland and the Savoie region of France. The Raclette cheese round is heated, either in front of a fire or by a special machine, then scraped onto diners' plates; the term raclette derives from the French word racler, meaning "to scrape". Traditionally, it is accompanied by small firm potatoes (Bintje, Charlotte or Raclette varieties), gherkins, pickled onions, and dried meat, such as jambon cru/cuit and viande des Grisons.

For a great online experience visit the Borough Market at http://www.boroughmarket.org.uk/. This is a great website with lots of photos and maps. It even has recipes. You can almost smell the fresh food.

Monaco

2011-05-29T23:02:00.001-04:00

We awoke to a gray day. The sun was obscured by a blanket of clouds. We dressed hurriedly and were on our way. But first we stopped by the front desk to ask if the clerk would take care of our parking fee. You could only pay for six hours of parking at once. We would be gone longer. We needed help. The day clerk said that he would be glad to take care of it for us. Having solved this problem we breakfasted at a cafe on the way to the train station which must have been at least half a mile down through the zig-zaged streets. Coffee and croissants make a good breakfast when you are in a hurry. Buy it at the counter, sit and enjoy, no waiting for wait staff. The place was crowded with natives on the way to work, reading their newspapers, buying lottery tickets over the din of musical French in a light cloud of cigarette smoke. It's almost like fast food. I guess it is food, fast. We catch the train for Monaco. It was easier here because there was a ticket agent instead of the usual automated ticket dispensers. It would have been a very nice train ride had it not been for rude Americans. One woman yells loudly, "Is this train going to Italy?" Then complains about all her misadventures and about how they don't do it this way in Dallas. We spoke not a word and tried to appear European.

The railroad track follows the contour of the land as it meets the sea and we had a beautiful view of the Mediterranean off the starboard side of the train. In less than an hour we disembark at the station in the principality of Monaco. We have indeed crossed the border into the only true monarchy in the free world. Monaco like Villafranche-sur-mur from which we came seems to be cantilevered on the side of a

mountain. We exit one of the four exits of the station into the minuscule country (.75square miles) of 30,000 residents. It is one of the money laundering capitals of the world. (Infamously known as "a sunny place for shady people") Our goal is to see the changing of the guard at the prince's palace. We tend to like the military pomp of these ceremonies. Ah, yes, the thunder of drums and flash of sabers! Monaco is the only city we've visited where you can take an elevator between streets. I often have difficulty getting my head around this idea...but I did it..so... We have a small map of the city in our guidebook and notice how reality is very different from the printed page. The page lies flat, the city does not. It's about ten o'clock in the morning and the ceremony is at 11:55 and we decide to walk to the top of the mountain upon which Palias Princier sits. The climb is steep and I cursed my miserly Scottish ancestry which kept me from the one euro bus ride.

The palace is the home of Monaco's ruling monarch, Prince Albert, whose full name and title is Prince Albert Alexandre Louise Pierre, Marquis of Baux. I'm not sure why he's not a king, since he is the head of the Gramaldi ruling family. The court yard is beautiful and there are great views of the city and harbors below. This would possibly have been a great place to view the Grand Prix of Monaco, an automobile race of international renown. A statue of Francois Grimaldi dominates the palace square. Old Francois conquered the area in 1297 masqueraded as a monk. Although the Prince is the ruler of Monaco, the country administrator, telephone system, electricity ,water and so on are French.

We arrived early at the palace and got a front row view of the changing of the guard. We spent the waiting time looking at the various cannon on display and admiring the views of the harbor but avoided the gift shop which was doing a booming business with the burgeoning crowd of tourists. By this spectacular ceremony you would think that Monaco was a world power. It's quite entertaining with a brass band and pith helmeted palace guards. I noted that the rifles were M-16's with bayonets. Bayonet training was eliminated from the American combat training regimen recently. After the changing of the ceremony, the guards return to their respective posts and we leave the palace. And it's all downhill. We wanted to see the casino. The most famous casino in the world.

Monte Carlo is a area of Monaco. (I always thought it was the name of the casino.) Monte Carlo actually means "Charles's Hill" in Spanish and was named for the ruling prince at the time the casino was built. Over the entrance to the casino reads Casino de Monte Carlo. It is flanked on the right by the Hotel de Paris and on the left by the Loews Casino. Casino de Monte Carlo is the gambling establishment frequented by James Bond in the 007 films. I would have been great to have seen Sean Connery drive up in an Aston Martin DB-5. Connery did not appear but the exotic sports cars were there; Ferrari, Maserati, Aston -Martin, Bentley and others. This place exudes conspicuous consumption. The casino doesn't open until 2:00 P.M. and we weren't interesting in waiting.

However, to feed the desire take a chance, we entered the Loews Casino. The machines seem to have in insatiable appetite for euros. One noticeable difference from Vegas was the absence of free drinks. There is a lot of security here and no cameras allowed in the casino.

After spending the allotted amount on casino entertainment we would catch the train to Nice for an afternoon admiring the artwork of one of the great French masters.

Scanography

2011-05-28T06:24:00.001-04:00

Scanography--a new way I've found to create pictures or images. As an artist I am always attempting to create images, whether in painting, collage, photography, computer generated or other means or a combination of media. Recently, I discovered scanography. I use a scanner to create pictures. Initially, I simply placed objects on the scanner and scanned, much the same way as you would make a copy or scan images into an image editing program. Then I remembered what things were like in the early days of photocopiers. People would put anything in the copier. Once when I was working at an iron foundry a worker put a one dollar bill in the copier and made a copy of it and then used it in a vending machine to get a burger. Once we convinced him he was counterfeiting money, he was terrified. And, of course, there are those stories of the office staff making photocopies of certain body parts.

At first I placed scraps of paper on the scanner and scanned them. Then I arranged the multicolored scraps of paper in a pattern and scanned. I added photographs and anything else flat and paper thin. You can compose a picture of these bits. It's like assembling a collage without the glue. You are composing the picture on your scanner from front to back. The first abjects placed will be at the front of your picture. All the rules of composition work here just like in a painting or photograph. Adding three dimensional objects creates even more interest in the composition.

This is a great way to exercise you creativity. The images created can be printed or edited with software such as Photoshop.

In the examples below I have used various scraps of paper, photographs, textile fabric, and solid objects to create the image. One is a scan of a piece woven from newspaper strips with a red paper tear-out added. Next to is is a scan of my hand manipulated in Photoshop. In the two scanographs below I have used bamboo leaves with a photograph and autuum leaves with a marker drawing to create the images.

These are merely

examples of what

can be done. Think

of the scanner as

a camera. See the

scanner as "new"

media!

Paddlin' to the Echoes of Pickers

2011-05-19T11:50:00.001-04:00

We were on an expedition to find some roots. That is, family roots. Or at least to find the lodge built by my wife's late brother. Her brother, Jim Adams, had gone to Alaska in the 1960's, started a construction business, and while there built a lodge on Lake Louise. We were going to find the lodge and spend a few nights there. The Internet yielded the website for the lodge and accepted our reservations on-line. It was a late summer morning when we left Anchorage for Lake Louise. We followed the Glenn Highway from Palmer and pulled over to the side of the road to view the Matanuska Glacier on the way before getting on the gravel road to the lodge.  The road to the lodge was a well maintained twenty mile stretch of gravel road. One of the things you immediately notice in rural Alaska is the lack of utility poles.

As we approached the Point Lodge we saw the building housing the generator for the lodge. If you want any electricity in rural Alaska you have to make it yourself. The area we were in was still being homesteaded in the 1950's, and we would later meet one of the homesteaders. The lodge sat on a point of land jutting out into Lake Louise, which was named for an army captain's wife. There were several other out buildings, some cabins, and a nice gravel parking lot. The lodge was a two-story structure with a glassed-in area facing the lake on a gentle treeless slop to the dock on the lakefront. We entered the huge lobby cum public living area expecting to see a myriad of mounted wildlife heads on the walls, but the decor was more about boats and water related sports.  There was a chubby friendly tabby named L. J. that added an extra touch of coziness to the room. The lodge was originally named Point of View Lodge by Jim Adams when he built it, but the current owners had shortened it to The Point Lodge. We stowed our stuff in our comfortable upstairs room overlooking the lake, there are only 13 rooms, and went out to explore. There was a collection of small marine engines in the lobby as well mounted specimens of Arctic fox and other small animals, which I found interesting. Over the huge stone fireplace was a painting of a bald eagle. We found that there were canoes available for use, so we grabbed the PFDs and paddles and went down to the lake.

The water was like glass on this sunny day. The canoe sliced through the water as we paddled in semi-synchronicity. I say semi, because I am not a creature of grace and prefer vehicles with a bit more stability than a canoe. It was great, with puffy white clouds overhead and the smell of clean air. Lake Louise had once been the site of a U. S. Army recreation area built toward the end of WWII. In fact, General Dwight D. Eisenhower had once vacationed there. There is still the recreation area, but it is no longer under the auspices of the U. S. Army. Prior to going to dinner at the lodge (there was nowhere else to go) I took out the canoe solo. My proverbial black cloud hovered over my head, and the winds blew and the water became rough, and I had to paddle like the devil to keep out of the overhanging shrubs to get back to the windsock marked pier.

When Jim operated the lodge in its heyday folks would fly in from Anchorage for the Saturday night dances. Jim was something of a country music singer and had appeared on Channeel 2, KTVU, in San Francisco. Although he never achieved fame as a performer, he nevertheless knew lot of people in the country music business, and he would invite them to play at his Point of View Lodge. The sounds of music and merriment would echo across the lake. Float planes and watercraft would be tied up at the dock. During this time there were a goodly number of soldiers at the nearby army recreation area, too who attended the Saturday night dances. The Point of View Lodge became the place to be on summer Saturday nights in the Matanuska area.  Jim stayed in Alaska until his death, and in true frontier fashion had his ashes spread across Lake Louise by a bush pilot friend flying low over the placid lake on which Jim had built his dream.

People still fly into the lodge today for a weekend and in winter, before the lake freezes, that is the only way it is accessible. While lounging in the lobby I heard the sound of a high performance automobile. Once you hear the sound of a high performance V-8 engine you remember the sound, even though that's probably just a "guy thing'. But what could it be? We were miles from where a car could be going fast enough to make that sound. I sprang to the window to look out on the lake. It was an airboat with a Chevrolet engine. A man and a dog came ashore from the airboat docked at the pier. The man was a big bearded outdoors type, and the dog was what you would expect in these parts, a sled dog. He had come to help the innkeeper with some chores. And Jack, the dog, he just goes where Frank, the man, goes. I had a chance to talk to Frank later about his watercraft, explaining that I had seen many airboats in Florida and other marshy areas of the eastern coast of the continental United States. He explained that the air boat was really great in winter when the lake was frozen solid, and the boat was like sled gliding across the ice.

Victoria, the innkeeper, prepared a fantastic dinner of roast pork, sweet potatoes, asparagus, and cheese ravioli. There was a crisp salad and hearty harvest bread, too. The beverage of choice was Alaska Timber Draft. We shared the cream cake with coffee. As the only guests we had the choice of view of the lake from the dining room.

Later that evening our hosts had invited a local fellow, Tom Main, to come  over. He had known Jim. The years had been pretty good to Tom. He was of slight build, about five feet ten inches tall , with a considerable amount of grey hair receding from his forehead, and with skin textured by age. Beneath the bespectacled brown eyes was an infectious smile. Although he hadn't know Jim very well, he did have some stories to tell.

"I homesteaded my place, you know", he said, as he began a story of how he came to be in Alaska. Tom told how he had been educated in a Japanese internment camp during WWII before eventually going into government service and subsequently ending up in Alaska. He had been a homesteader on his property on Lake Louise. Tom's first house had been a tent and though the years he had added solid walls and eventually a roof and continued to expand it to its present size. His home had solar panels for heating water, and electricity generated with a combination of diesel generator, wind power, and solar panels. I would have liked to have seen his homestead, but we did not have the time. He told us that in rural Alaska emergency medical care was provided by specially trained volunteers. A person would normally be flown to a hospital, if necessary. Small single-engine aircraft are a common mode of transport in Alaska. It was great talking with Tom. We learned a great deall about life in rural Alaska, past and present. We said our goodnights turned in for the night.

I think perhaps Alaskans are different. A few days earlier I had met a nine-year-old boy at breakfast at a bed and breakfast in Anchorage. I found him fascinating. His mother was native American, but his father was Caucasian from Minnesota, and they lived in the north near Barrow. I queried Clarence about life in Alaska for a boy and was surprised that he had no interest in television or video games. Clarence's biggest concern was whether the person he left in charge of his trapline was maintaining it properly. He could not wait to get back to check his traps. At nine-years-old he traps fox and other fur bearing animals, skins them out, and sells their pelts. He speaks of this as if it is normal activity for a boy his age and probably doesn't understand why anyone would think otherwise.

We saw a beautiful sunrise the next morning, said our goodbyes to our hosts, and were on the road again in our rented PT Cruiser after a good breakfast. It had been a good visit to The Point Lodge, once known as Point of View Lodge. I think Jim would have been proud.

More info:

Alaska, the last frontier.

Tales of the Gold Monkey ...Flashback

2011-05-06T17:45:00.001-04:00

This was one of my favorite television shows of the early '80's. How could I not like it? Set in the late 1930's, a time of spies and intrigue, on a tropical island under French jurisdiction in the south Pacific. A ex-military pilot flying a seaplane who has a comic sidekick and a one-eyed dog with a cafe singer for a girlfriend make for exciting television. And that's just a few of the characters. With plot lines dealing with German spies and unruly natives things kept getting better and better. Stephen Collins played the main character, Jake Cutter, the owner-pilot of the Grumman flying boat, Cutter's Goose.

I'm a big fan of adventure stories whether on film or in print and this was one of the best. I'm reminded of a character in a Louis L'Amour story who flew a seaplane which had machine guns mounted on it. Maybe the creator of Tales of the Gold Monkey read the same stories. And maybe that is the connection between the best of western fiction and the best of south Pacific pre-WWII aviation intrigue. At any rate this was a great fun show. Plots were simple and the good guys were easy to distinguish from the bad guys.

Of the actors in this show Stephen Collins went on to many movies and television series and is probably best known for his role in 7th Heaven. Roddy MacDowall was a well known film actor when he took a part in Tales of the Gold Monkey. Jeff MacKay would play recurring characters in other television series such as Magnum P.I., JAG, Battlestar Galactica, The Black Sheep Squadron, and Airwolf as well as other adventure shows.

I'm a great fan of the productions of Donald P. Bellisario, the producer of Tales of the Gold Monkey. Other Bellisario productions include Magnum P. I., Airwolf, Quantum Leap, JAG, and NCIS. Bellisario was also the writer of such shows as Black Sheep Squadron and Battlestar Gallactica.

Links:

Vaison la Romaine

2011-05-05T12:23:00.001-04:00

It was frustrating! We were tired of driving but could not find our bed and breakfast in Vaison la Romaine. We had followed the maps downloaded to our iPod, and they were accurate right up to the barricade on Rue d'Avignon. Yes, the street our lodging was on was barricaded. What to do? On the right we were fifty yards from the Ouveze River and on the left was a mountain. But ingenuity and French hospitality paid off. My tavelmate found a real estate office with two great women who drew a map on the back of advertising flyers to show us the way. We checked into Hotel la Bastid de Vaison about nightfall. Thank God for French women! I have said this before for a different reason, which I won't go into now.

Our temporary abode had been used for processing olive oil and was built in the 13th century. It was quite charming and comfortable as well. Our host was very helpful and we were quite pleased since we had booked this lodging online without the benefit of the English language. The morning sun came into the room at dawn, and through the window you could see the vineyard on the hillside and the big furry white cat peering in at us. We ventured down two floors to the breakfast prepared by the innkeeper. We don't often eat at our lodging, but this was a considerable distance from town. Coffee and fresh croissants as usual. I love 'em. The patio was bursting with colorful flowers and plants making it difficult to leave the inn. But there were Roman ruins to be seen.

Soon we were enjoying one of the true benefits of Vaison la Romaine: free parking. Free parking is a rarity in France except in very small villages. But here in Vaison la Romaine not only was it free, but was located across the street from the Tourist Information Office at place da Chanoine Sautel and between the two sites of Roman ruins. This was the first of the often lauded in the guidebooks tourist Information Offices we had found open. So we stood in line to get our map of the city, to find out where to get fuel for our car, and where the laundry was. And, of course, information about local attractions. The lady was extremely helpful, although it seems that every place you would want to go to in which ever town you're in is always "ten minutes away". Vaison la Romaine is made of two towns Villa Basse and Ville Haute. Ville Basse being the lower town and Ville Haute the other. The ruins are located in the lower town.

We bought our tickets to see the Roman ruins and entered through the gates. We walked to the top of the hill through the ruins to get to a very modern museum exhibiting ancient relics. Like all the museums we visited in France this one was first class. We paid eight euros each for a map of the ruins and an audio guide in English. Out of the museum we went to discover the 2,000 year old ruins of a town. Only a small portion of it is visible while the rest is still buried under the current city. Here you can walk among the ruins of houses and see what's left of the walls, gardens, baths, and kitchens of the Roman homes. Wall frescoes are still visible, and we walked on mosaic floors that were over 2000 years old. To me it was interesting to see how the water system worked, supplying in fresh water and taking away waste water. On one site is a 6,000 seat amphitheater which is used today. The population of this city in the first century was 6,000 and that is the current population. However, after the barbarians ran the Romans out, the population declined and has only recently reached its current level. The audiotours are indispensable for the enjoyment of the ruins. After visiting the Puymin site we ventured across the street to La Villasse, the other site. Your ticket has a code which is used to open the gate to this site since there is not a caretaker on site. This has more shops and fewer residences.

After a bit of lunch it was time to do some chores. We normally do laundry every three days or so, and we had put it off long enough. Of course the laundry was only "ten minutes away", but it took a little longer to find. The coin operated machines would not take our coins. (Some things never change regardless of country.) But my clever wife, with the help of another customer, found the owner and they solved the problem. While my travel mate was doing laundry I found a gas station and topped off the tank of the Peugeot. It was kind of frustrating because the pump would not take my credit card and I had to go inside to pay while the waiting line at the pump grew.

After the chores were done we were going to dinner in Ville Haute which was the medieval town on the mountain the other side of the river. We crossed the Roman bridge and drove up to the restaurant, an Italian one recomended by our innkeeper. But, alas, it had not opened for dinner, so we decided to walk around the town. It had the narrow steep streets lined with stone houses. Flowers seemed to be bursting from every available spot of soil. There is nothing very notable here, but the cobbled streets and many fountains are a delight to behold. It was the onset of evening as people were enjoying dinner, and you could hear laughter and the clink of glasses through open doors and window. As we walked past an open window we heard the voice of a four-year-old, saying " Bonjour!". He was a cute little fellow. Throughout the town there are large black and white photographs of people in the windows of vacant buildings. From the chateau, which was build in 1195, we walked down to the restaurant where we had left our car and enjoyed a great meal while watching the lights come on in Ville Basse. Incidently, the people from Ville Basse always retreated to Ville Haute when attacked by barbarians as the high ground is always easier to defend.

Couldn't help using a little
Photoshop magic!

We had enjoyed our stay in Vaison la Romaine and were continually surprised at the number of Roman ruins in France.

Unsold at Garage Sale

2011-05-03T10:29:00.001-04:00

At our garage yard sale there was one item we were unable to get rid of. This trunk. We sold two others but not this camel-topped trunk. There is something about the look of them I like. Or maybe it reminds me of pirate treasure chests. At any rate I was happy when no one would buy it. Could I restore it? It would make a handsome piece. Would it be beyond my skill level? Could be. Having a professional do the job was out of the question economically. And, I might add, I was not receiving any enthusiastic support from the other member of the household. However, throwing caution to the wind I set out to undertake the project with certain budgetary constraints.

My dad and I had found in an out building of our family's original homestead. The farm house dated from before 1860 and the trunk was about that old. Maybe. It is 16 inches tall and 30 inches long and 15 inches front to back and is made of pine and has tincorners, tin covering and some leather handles.

In the above photo details of the damages are seen. Noted clockwise beginning at 12 o'clock.

The embossed tin covering is rusted and has holes in it.
Sever damage to the embossed tin.
This photo shows the detail of the embossing.
This lock or latch must be replaced.
This photo shows the distressed corner. Wood and metal must be replaced.
Strap caps must be replaced.
Unseen are the hinges and stays that also must be replaced.

Looks like I've got my work cut out for me!

Patefacio Vestri Libri

2011-04-28T20:03:00.000-04:00

We said goodbye to our hosts at the Stables Bed and Breakfast near Newcastle and were in search of Hadrian's Wall. Our host had said it was easy to find. After all it was 74 miles long and stretched the breadth of England. Via a few small signs and a bit of luck we found it. O,r at least a part of it. We parked the little Benz by the side of the country lane and read the historical placard about the wall before crossing the fence for the short walk uphill to the wall remains.

Crossing the fence was an easy chore because there was a stairway. I don't think that I'd seen anything like it elsewhere. The British seem to make all historical sites easily accessible, and it was only about a fifty yard walk to the ruins. After yesterday's walk up to Durham's cathedral this was a break! It was a beautiful morning with the sun shining, the grass green and sheep bleating softly.

Hadrian's Wall, built about 122 A.D., and would you believe that Hadrian was the Roman emperor at that time? The wall is 74 miles long and was designed to keep the Picks of Scotland out of England or restrict the movement of the people within the wall. The Picks were the blue-faced barbarian ancestors of Braveheart and perhaps me. The wall was constructed of stone for the most part and twelve feet high. There were forts at 5000 foot intervals called mileforts and turrets between the mileforts. We were looking at one of the turrets. Over one thousand years ago roman soldiers were standing here armed with spears, shields and swords. From this point they maintained the security of the massive Roman Empire. This was the frontier and I was standing in their foot steps. Once manned by soldiers from throughout the Empire, Spainards, Greeks, or North Africans, the wall was later manned by local Britons. The construction of this part of the wall is stone; some 30 odd miles are of earth. Indeed Roman stone quarries are found along the length of the stone portion of the wall, and there are deposites of lime nearby for making concrete, the building material invented by the Romans. But this morning there is no rattling of weapons, just the soft bleating of sheep and the joyous laughter of a two-year-old tumbling is the soft green grass. There is a family of mom, dad, children, and grandpa visiting the site as well, and I, lost in my thoughts of ancient soldiers, stand in awe of the achievement of Roman engineers. Only one caveat at this site: watch out for the sheep dung!

Oh, by the way, "Patefacio vestri libri" translated from Latin is "Open your books...". The first thing my eigth-grade Latin teacher would say when we entered the schoolroom.

Links:

I Have Reached the Heights of Outdoor Cookery!

2011-04-27T12:28:00.001-04:00

I think that outdoor cooking is a guy thing. That's always who's doing it in the comic strips, and comic strips reflect life. Right? I'm sure that when we light that campfire, barbeque grill, or habachi we're thinking of cowboys around the campfire with beans in a pot over the fire and a half side of beef on the spit. Or maybe a cracklin' fire under that skillet of fresh trout with the sound of that fast moving mountain stream nearby. Some of my cooking has been a solitary effort, and some a group activity.

As I reach back into my memory for the first time I cooked anything outdoors it was probably when my buddy, Jimmy and I went camping. Of course we were about 9 or 10 years old and unrolled our sleeping blankets within a quarter mile of the farmhouse where I lived. Well, we cooked up some eggs and they stuck to the skillet. But Jimmy told me that the way to clean the skillet was to scrub it with sand, and wash it out with water. It got it clean, sort of. The next batch of eggs were kind of gritty. But that was okay when you're having a great adventure.

Of course one of the first things you cook in the backyard or over a campfire are weiners on the end of a wire coathanger straightened out. There's something primitive about how that piece of meat gets all charred and crunchy. And, you can eat it right off the wire. That's the way I like mine.

I do remember some group cooking in which I was only an observer. When I was about seven years old I went to a hash cookin' with my father. It seems that he would get together with some of his relatives every year and cook a pot of hash for the annual family reunion. They would have at least two washpots for cooking. Washpots were used in the olden days to boil clothes in for washing, but they were good for cooking, too. They would fill the pots with pork and a little beef with potatoes and seasonings and cook it all night long. The meat eventually would literally fall apart, or would with very little shredding. My cousin and I would listen to the grown-ups' stories and tales in the flickering firelight. Much as we fought it, we would finally fall asleep. The next day the hash would be served up in little cardboard trays with pickles and white sliced bread, and we would pig-out.

I learned to grill burgers and barbecue chicken. I get a little impatient with chicken and cook it in the oven for about forty-five minutes before finishing it up on the grill. Steak and pork grilled are some of my favorites. Chicken on a stick is also one of my favorites, as well as bratwurst. I would never put a brat on the grill before first cooking it in beer, preferably a dark. And never puncture the brat and let out all that delicious juice.

I first started using a dutch oven when I was a Scout leader. I have a spider Dutch oven. It' a big iron pot with legs on it and a flat lid to hold the charcoal on top. A dutch oven can be used to bake anything that you can bake in a conventional oven. I've baked cake, cornbread, biscuits, coblers, and meatloaf in my dutch oven and used it as a big pot to make chicken bog. By the way, they're called dutch ovens because German peddlers sold them. The Germans spoke "Deutch", pronounced "dutch" by the locals.

We camp a lot. We've made two coast-to-coast trips and camped along the way. This calls for outdoor cooking, since we are tent campers. Some times we buy fresh produce at local markets. I made some great corn chowder when we bought some fresh sweet corn in Wisconsin. I cooked chicken and dumplings beside the Rogue River in Oregon. Unfortunately, I had to use Bisquick (I prefer scratch-made.) for the dumplings, but they were good. My travelmate had picked fresh berries down by the river and made some blackberry dumplings, and I learned from her how to make the dumplings.

One of my favorite methods of cooking is smoking. This is a wet smoke rather than dry smoke. Dry smoke is used for curing meat for preservation. I use a small smoker that uses charcoal for a heat source. Over the years I have smoke cooked salmon, chicken, and turkey. Smoke imparts a unique flavor to the meat that is cooked at a low temperature over a long period of time. The addition of various varieties of wood chips such as apple, pecan, or cherry imparts those flavors to the meat subtlety. Which brings me to the height of outdoor cookery.

Recently, while in France, I frequently ate duck and liked it. I had only ordered it once in a resturant here. I decided that my next cooking project would be smoked duck. The local Publix supermarket had just the duck I needed. It weighed in at 4.2 lbs. From the internet I got a recipe and went to work. The basting liquid was of made up of orange zest, orange juice, rice wine, rice vinegar, fresh grated ginger, and some other stuff. I filled the drip pan on the smoker and started the first batch of charcoal. I basted it once per hour for six hours and continued to add charcoal (I used almost an entire bag.) to keep the temperature up to about 200 degrees. Mesquite wood chips that had been soaked in water were added to generate a smokey mesquite flavor. When the meat thermometer read about 160 degrees I took the duck off the smoker, and the skin was a golden brown. It had taken about five and one half hours to cook the duck. The skin was crispy, and the meat had a hint of the basting sauce and a touch of mesquite. It was tender and juicy. This was the best tasting meat I have ever cooked. Duck gets a bad rep for being greasy, but this was not the case. I served it up with canelli bean salad and mashed sweet pototoes.

I am sure I will never cook anything better than this duck!

Sunday Night on Avenue des Champs-Élysées

2011-04-24T16:20:00.001-04:00

aris, FrancOnce I was talking to a local Belgium-born artist and asked him what was his favorite city. I knew he was a world traveler and no-doubt had a favorite city. He smiled, his eyes sparkled and a smile erupted on his bearded face.

"Paris," he said.

I wondered why. I'd read about the famous people past and present who had called the French city home but wanted to see for myself.

It was our last day in Paris; in the morning we would take the train to Verrnon. In the morning we had visited the Louuvre and Orsay Museums and had a bit of lunch. Both museums were crowded but enjoyable just the same. We did , of course, see the Mona Lisa, Da Vinci's painting of world renown. We decided to take a leisurely stroll along the river in an easterly direction from Notre Dame. I looked for Duncan McLeod's barge but did not see it. It was always tied up opposite Notre Dame in the television series, The Highlander. The church in the middle of the Seine River is quite impressive, but crowds of tourists seem to overwhelm the spiritual ambiance of the place.

In the Tuileries Garden we male a brief visit to Musee de l'Orangerie (Orangerie Museum) showcasing the work of the artist, Henri Manet. His paintings of the water lilies in his garden are huge, with one of them covering an entire wall. Other painters of his era are represented as well. While there we saw an old man dressed like a painter of that era with flowing beard and floppy hat. We then continued our walk in the garden and sat for a while on a park bench watching a family play a game of boule. This game is played throughout Europe but known by different names. Basically a player tries to throw a heavy ball, boule, about softball size at a smaller target ball or "cochonnet". Points are scored by the player getting closest to the target ball. It's a team sport and the first team getting to 13 points is the winner. It was enjoyable to watch a family having so much fun on a Sunday afternoon. I was surprised in our walk not to see any painters with their easels; they were always in the movies. I did see some cheap reproductions for sale on one of the bridges. It would have been nice to have pulled my beret low over my eyes and dipped a brush into some French ultramarine blue oil and put it on canvas. Maybe next time.

We continued our walk to Place de la Concorde which is the city's largest square. The gardens and the square were created by Louis XIV, and later he lost his head there as well as Marie Antionette. Avenue des Champs-Elysees begins here. There was an oriental couple in western wedding garb here talking with well-wishers beside a stretch limousine surrounded by other cars and pedicabs. We continued our walk along the busy avenue and stopped at a park bench to people watch for a while. We considered buying some ice cream but thought it was too expensive, one Euro per boule. They sell it by the "boule" instead of by the scoop . All sorts of vehicles were on the avenue: exotic sports cars, limousines, motorcycles, and the ubiquitous motorscooters. I actually saw a man doing a wheelie on a scooter. Some of the French women were dressed to the nines. The epitome of feminine eye candy! We walked from the shady tree lined area to where the shops and restaurants were and found a delightful place to eat. It had just opened for dinner. Great food in an incomparable atmosphere. Food isn't cheap in Paris. Remember everything has that 19% value added tax. And there is no required tipping. I've heard many stories about the rudeness of French waiters. We found them to be quite professional. You must remember that dining in France is a leisurely experience.

After finishing our dinner, (I had that famous peasant dish, cassoulet, a rich stew of various meats and white beans), we continued walking toward the Arc de Triomphe and saw the shops of all the world famous clothing designers and jewelers and watchmakers. The street was full of a festive crowd and all the streetlamps were now on. There were automobile dealer showrooms and we looked around the Peugeot showroom since we were going to rent a Peugeot when we reached Rouen. It was amusing to see a salesman apprehending an over zealous shopper asking him to get out of a car on display. I did not understand the language but understood the intent. After all I had once been an automobile salesman.

By now it is twilight and the neon is reflecting off the sidewalk as the huge monument to Napoleon's victories looms ahead. Twelve streets merge at the Arc de Triomphe and are named for army generals.

We join the crowd to enter the 164 foot tall monument. We were unaware that this particular Saturday was "free" day. On certain days during the year national attractions such as this have the admission charge waived. This was such a day, and I think every Frenchman between Paris and Nice was there. But how many times would we get a chance to go tho the top of such a world renowned attraction? So, you stand in line. It wasn't so bad, and we took the elevator, which isn't very obvious. After the final few steps the panoramic view of Paris, the city of light, awaits us. There are few lights on top and I was moving toward the rail in semi-darkness when I accidentally bumped into a couple at my feet who were too much into each other to notice me. But the young woman looked over his shoulder and gave me a knowing look as I apologized and passed by. The view is fantastic! The sun is setting, the city sparkles with lights, and the lighted traffic streams to and from us and circles around our feet. People speak with "u-u-uhs" and "a-a-ahs" in several different languages as the sun descends below the horizon.

We make our descent through the gift shop after reaching ground level. We stop a few minutes to take a photo of the grave of the unknown soldier from WWI. The monument reads:

ICI REPOSE UN SOLDAT FRANÇAIS MORT POUR LA PATRIE 1914–1918 ("Here lies a French soldier who died for the fatherland 1914–1918").

There is an "eternal" flame marking the grave. It's said that Jacqueline Kennedy got the idea for such a flame for her husband's grave here when she and Jack Kennedy visited this place with then French president Charles de Gaulle.

We catch the metro back to our hotel at 110 Rue des Orteaux. Our hotel is in the part of Paris made famous by the singer Edith Piaf who grew up singing for tips on the streets. It was a fairly long ride but made interesting by a Frenchman who had obviously had too much wine. He kept trying to get someone to sing with him but was unsuccessful.

It was a great day, one we will long remember. I think the painter was right. I can't say exactly what it is about Paris, but it's my favorite city, too.

Links:

Some of my photographs of Paris
The Arc de Triomphe
Notre Dame de Paris
More about Boule.

A Traveler's Sketchbook

2011-04-20T04:53:00.000-04:00

I have been an avid sketchbook artist for many years. I always have one with me. My car has one also. And, yes I do draw on napkins at restaurants sometimes. When I first started drawing before toilet training I would have used a sketchbook them but, alas, my parents didn't get me one. I'm not really sure if they are visual image repositories or just annotated journals. I can't conceive of an artist or the hands of the curious being without one.

Over the years I have developed some preferences in sketchbooks. I prefer a small book (14 x 21.6 cm)
with paper as heavy as I can find. I prefer 90lb paper. Because if you want to add color with watercolor the heavier paper will wrinkle less. For drawing, I prefer a black ballpoint, something like you would find on the nightstand at Motel 6. I have used pencil, but it smears unless you carry a travel size aerosol of hairspray or fixative to fix the drawing. I usually lost the hairspray. In the back of my sketchbooks a paste an envelope of a size that will fit. This is great place to keep ticket stubs, tokens business cards or maybe a few pesos. I use my books daily whether traveling or not. I develop painting ideas, make notes for videos, copy song lyrics and add about anything else that will fit.

Here are some examples:

On these pages I've worked out a color scheme for a painting on the upper left while below it I have done a storyboard for a video presentation.

The right side has value sketches and designs to be included in the video.

On the left page recounts an interesting event. We were in a restaurant in Newcastle, England, where the service was extremely slow. We entertained ourselves by writing limericks on post-its and sticking them on the page.
On the right is a small drawing from Scotland with watercolor wash. (I usually do the washes in a hotel room in the evening rather that on site.)

Above on the left is a watercolor sketch for a larger painting. I like to work out the a lot of the detail in the smaller scale. In the book on the right are rubbings of foreign coins. I normally don't carry a pencil, but my wife loaned me an eyebrow pencil which worked quite well. You will note on the top of the next page over the miscellaneous drawings is the layout of a hotel room. Yes, I draw floor plans and maps as well. One of the books has a extensive collections of drawings of the ruins of a 18th century South Carolina mill and the probably machinery for its operation.

Not shown are rubbings of plants, stickers, labels from beer bottles, collages, stampings, and other stuff. (One of my books has a passport stamp in it.) Did mention "doodles"? The books are not just for drawings.

My sketchbooks are quite autobiographical. They will tell you where I was and usually what I was thinking at a perticular point in time. if you don't have a sketchbook, get one! If you have one, ise it! You'll be glad you did.

James Gurney, the dinosaurs are coming!

2011-04-18T06:01:00.003-04:00

On Sunday we were due our monthly Barnes and Noble fix. I have a prescribed route I take in the store. First, what's new in the cheap stuff in the lobby, then past the books in the main aisle. If it is the usual browsing mission then to the art books and finally to the magazine stand to peruse the newest periodicals. After scavenging knowledge on subjects from cinema to Google hacks, I'm picking up a few and heading to the coffee shop where the odor of Starbucks blends with that of printers ink for that most intoxicating of aromas. With my decaf mocha I'll enjoy my latest issue of my favorite publication with my mate. And there are always new discoveries. Enter James Gurney.

Gurney is most well known for his Dinotopia books which are illustrated stories from an imaginative land inhabited by dinosaurs and people. His work from concept to execution is fantastic. The style is like that of the twentieth century illustrators, Howard Pyle, N. C. Wyeth and Norman Rockwell. But I like to find out more about these people who introduce us to the fantastic. Where do they come from? What is their training? What inspires them?

from Fire and Ice

James Gurney was born in 1958 and grew up in Palo Alto, California. His father was a mechanical engineer and he was the youngest of five children. Much like me he liked to tinker and build things as a boy. He studied archaeology at the University of California, Berkeley, but received a BA in Anthropology in 1979. He then studied illustration at the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California for a couple of semesters. After a cross-country trip, he and Thomas Kinkade (aka, The Painter of Light) coauthored The Artist’s Guide to Sketching in 1982. Gurney and Kinkade also worked as painters of background scenes for the animated film Fire and Ice, co-produced by Ralph Bakshi and Frank Frazetta. Frezetta was a well know painter of fantasy magazine covers. Gurney produced many magazine covers for the science fiction and fantasy publications. National Geographic Magazine was a client, and he produced a series of illustrations of dinosaurs for U.S. postage stamps. In 1992 he published Dinotopia: A Land Apart from Time which became a best seller. Later he produced sequels to the book. His paintings have the quality of the classical illustrators with unerring accuracy to detail as seen in the video below. Notice that his medium is oil usually applied in transparent layers. The anatomical accuracy of the animals and the technical accuracies of mechanical objects is unbelievable. Although, I'm not quite sure how you would ascertain the accuracy of mythical beasts and fictional mechanical objects. He currently lives in Rhinebeck, New York, and continues to produce great art along with books on art instruction as well and maintains two websites and a blog.

Additional information:

Tinkerer's Delight

2011-04-15T12:19:00.000-04:00

I am a confessed tinkerer. I think it's genetic. My brain as a child was warped by reading those books about famous inventors and scientists. I believed that I could build anything. I did have may famous follies. Most notable was a rocket. In the 1950's space travel was depicted in Life Magazine as rocket and satellite whizzing through the universe. Why should I not build my own model rocket from scratch. I had built model planes and cars. My first plane was a Piper Cub, built it before I could read, just followed the step-by-step pictures. When I was about and my interest in rockets peaked I would build a gunpowder powered rocket. Around the house I found everything I needed: gunpowder from Dad's shotgun shells, an empty toilet paper tube for the body of the rocket, and a nosecone I whittled from the wood of a packing crate. After assembly, needed a way to ignite the powder remotely. I didn't want to use a traditional fuse. (That would put me too close to the rocket. I scrounged a bit of with from a discarded hot plate and wrapped between two nails and inserted it into the tail of the rocket. I had an old piece of two-conductor wire with a plug on it and attached one wire to each nail. Time for the countdown. 3-2-1-(plug it in)-Blast-off!

Smoke and fire were forthcoming, but it did not move.

My family was upset about the loss of electricity. I was severely admonished for another one of my "scientific" projects.

I can't help but wonder what I could have done with the shop below.

Fairey Tale Redux

2011-04-15T04:40:00.000-04:00

I like the movie, Hanna. It's the story of a genetically altered teenage girl, Saoirse Ronan, trained by her father, Eric Bana, to be a fighting machine. An innocent sought to be destroyed by the resident evil, Cate Blanchette. It has nuances of fantasy with the chill of a good thriller and a story line that is vaguely familiar. I particularly like the visual effects of the film. It appeared to be shot in the post apocalypic light of the future. The action scenes, and there are many, are well done but not quite overdone and the CGI work blends effortlessly. But the fight scenes, as in most current films, seem to be video game recreations. One note on lack of detail: The warm breath of the dying caribou in the opening scene does not fog the cold northern air. All actors offer good performances, but I feel that Blanchette underplayed her role a bit. The bloody tooth brushing scene is a plus. The film exhibits good direction by Joe Wright, the London trained director, known for his direction of Atonement.

It's a good thriller and I would watch it again.

Linx:

Travel Bits

2011-04-14T06:24:00.001-04:00

As you know from previous posts, we love to travel. We prefer journeys of roughly three weeks in duration and we don't like organized tours although sometimes that is the only way to see what we wish in the allotted amount of time. We prefer to experience the maximum at the minimum of financial expenditure. Another preference is to take the Robert Frost road which is to say the road less traveled. One way is which we plan and execute is with our travel folder and a good guidebook.

The travel folder is a simple manila folder with the spring clips to hold the pages in. On the left side is our itinerary in chronological order. It contains in a table from left to right:

Date and day of journey (i. e. Day 25) and location of that day
what we wish to see that day
the nights lodging ( inn, B & B,etc.)
Daily mileage (we prefer to drive)
Total mileage

As a sheet is completed it is moved to the back.

On the right side of the folder is the documentation to support what is on the left side. Here would be car rental agreements, lodging confirmations, and/or maps from Google or Yahoo maps. (Navigation is crucial when driving in a foreign country, particularly one with a different language. In our case the non-driver reads directions to the driver.) These pages are moved to the back also as they are used. There is also an additional manila envelope attached to the inside of the right side which keeps small items such as tickets or brochures where needed.

This folder has the culmination of about nine months of planning. The bulk of the reservations are made on line as well as the details of attractions to see. Details of attractions are very important when visiting popular sites. In France there are days when there is no admission charge to national attractions. That is when crowds are at their greatest. To be confronted with the least crowd we try to visit in early morning or late afternoon and pay admission. Also be aware that some attractions close during lunch. We missed the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum in Albi, France, because we were there during lunchtime. Lunchtime was two hours long!

Get a good guidebook. We prefer Rick Steves'. We have long been fans of his travel shows on PBS and have used his books and travel products successfully. But we investigate other books as well. Lonely Planet and Frommers' have good books too.

Planning pays off when you're traveling and a travel folder is a big part of planning.

Sources:
Travel stuff
Travel books

I bet there's rich folks eatin'

2011-04-11T11:01:00.002-04:00

The lines from that Johnny Cash song, Folsom Prison Blues, tells the story of social disparity oh so well.

I bet there's rich folks eatin',
In a fancy dining car,
They're probably drinkin' coffee,
And smokin' big cigars,

But I'm stuck in Folsom Prison,
And time keeps draggin' on

Recently I watched a film by filmmaker Jamie Johnson which the trailer describes. It was interesting and enlightening and with blatant editorial bias. Mr. Johnson believes that the rich in this country have too much money and that is not good. It's the classic "haves" versus "have nots" argument. Interestingly enough Mr. Johnson is a member of the social class he vilifies. His income is derived from the family fortunes of Johnson & Johnson. He does not have to work for a living. While I must agree that perhaps the third or later generation removed from the creator of the family wealth may become isolated from actual work, initially someone had work to create the family wealth. Mr. Johnson advocates that the rich should share their wealth. What would this accomplish? Perhaps the rich would not provide the investment to create new business ventures that would create jobs? And what about the taxes and fees business pays to government? Could they be taxed into losing their profit incentive? And would we not continue our downward spiral into a entitlement society?

Recently in Monaco I saw some of the most ostentacious trappings of wealth, huge yachts and expensive motorcars. But with all their wealth and misuse of power, we need the rich.

Has a poor man ever given you a job?

Cote d' Azure

2011-04-07T00:48:00.000-04:00

"It may get stuck between floors," he said. Maurice, the desk clerk at the Riviera Hotel, 2 Avenue Albert, Villefranche-sur-Mer, told us as we inquired about the elevator. His seven-year-old daughter didn't notice us as she was deeply involved playing with an imaginary friend. I took the elevator on Marrices's insistance that he would get meout in case tthe elevator got stuck. Our room was small but neat and tidy, and we immediately opened the floor length windows to the balcony. The view of the harbor was stunning. The Mediterranean Sea was its customary brilliant blue. Luxury yachts the size of small ocean liners were taut on their mooring lines. This was the French Riviera.

Our drive from Vaison la Romaine had been exhausting. After all, we did make a few wrong turns in downtown Nice, but that did not curb our inquisitive spirit. Maurice gave us a map of the town and pointed out a few places to eat. (Desk clerks can always do this for they have friends at restaurants.) They know what the prices are, also. He reminded us that the closer the eatery was to the water the more expensive it would be.

There were a limited number of hours of sunlight left, and we had to get started. Down the stone streets and alleys of the medieval town we went. First, we passed Saint Michael's church, built in the 18th century, that is in the "Old Town". We continue our downward walk toward the sea, since all towns on the Cote de Azur are on hillsides by the sea. Our quest, or I should say, hunger for food led us to an oriental restaurant. (The restaurants suggested by the desk clerk were closed.) The food and service were good, but they wouldn't take our credit cards. We prefer to carry very little cash, just a hundred euros or so from the ATMs. The lengthy time for service is the norm in France, but is difficult for we Americans to adjust to it. We pass shops on the narrow streets as we continue. But, the walk to the shoreline is worth the effort. If you are young, or just feel that way, there is nothing like the walk by the waterfront cafes as patrons from the yachts at anchorage come ashore. The lights of the city beckon you as the music drifts across the water, with wafts of the odors of exotic foods and the stars above twinkle. And you wonder, "Can life be any better than this?"

We stop and look for creatures in the stars and talk in those hushed tones that lovers use before the walk through darkened streets to our hotel room many feet above sea level.

Film for a Winter's Day

2011-04-05T10:23:00.000-04:00

It was a cold day in upstate New York when I found this VHS tape of "Diva" on the library shelf. It was one of those winter days when the sun refused to shine and the day was in that traditional dim light of winter when the piles of snow had lost their brilliance. I pushed the tape into the slot in the VHS player came to life in my minuscule studio apartment after turning on the tea kettle.

The film consumed me completely. The tea kettle boiled over. I hurried back to the small screen with my cup of tea to resume my adventure into foreign films and look for the 1951 Studebaker pictured on the VHS box. This film had many features that made me a fan. The contrast of opera to the quirky jazz background music. Mini-skirted roller skaters, Orientals in dark glasses, classic cars and chase scenes all add to the charm of this film. This was one of the first foreign films I had seen and subsequently became a fan. I continue to watch this film today, it still has charm.

From the Rotten Tomatoes website:

Director Jean-Jacques Beineix launched the Cinema Du Look movement with this stylish cult thriller that remains as innovative today as when it premiered in 1981. Jules (Frederic Andrei), a young postal carrier, illegally tapes a concert of a reclusive opera singer (American soprano Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez). Jules' attempts to woo the diva are interrupted when Taiwanese bootleggers come after the recording. His problems worsen when a prostitute slips another tape, one that incriminates a police chief, into his bag. Jules must escape the police chief, the cop's henchmen and the bootleggers to keep both precious tapes safe - and to stay alive. Featuring critically acclaimed cinematography and a celebrated chase through the Paris Metro, Diva earned Cesar Awards for Best Music, Best Cinematography and Best Directorial Debut.

But, there is no 1951 Studebaker in the film.

For more information and critiques.

Their Legs Were Crossed

2011-03-31T20:59:00.000-04:00

We were walking down Fleet Street in London searching for another church. Sometimes I think I have an insatiable appetite for the architecture of the medieval churches. We had stopped in Twinings Tearoom for the traditional English tea, and with that good caffeine fix we were ready to do more exploring. Our quest was to find the Templar Temple. The name itself suggested a hint of mystery. After all, we had seen the film "The Da Vinci Code".

We found it on a narrow street between Fleet Street and the Thames River. Taller buildings and trees surround it. It has a small courtyard to the side. In that courtyard is a column with a statue of a mounted knight atop it. Images from films such as "The Kingdom of Heaven" cloud my mind. It is quiet and the muffled sounds of Fleet Street sound like the thunder of the hooves of mounted knights from another age. We enter the coolness of the stone walls. Our eyes adjust to the darkness and our noses to the consumate odor of the centuries. After seeing many medieval churches this one is truly unique--it's round. The main nave is indeed circular, but the chancel area is rectangular. But then the chancel was added to the original structure 200 years later. Why round? Because its design is based on the circular Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the most holy place in Christendom.

The church was consecrated in 1185. The king himself was in attendance. Recall that the Knights Templar were crusaders, protectors of the poor, and sought to reclaim the Holy Land from the clutches of Islam. The Templars were also known to have developed a banking system and are thought to have had connections to the famous banking family of the Rothschilds. The Knights Templar fell out of favor, probably because they became too powerful, and were persecuted into presumed extinction.

They took their solemn oaths in this circular nave. We stood in the very places the knights had taken their monastic vows. The acoustics are extraordinary here, not unlike those in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir practice hall in Salt Lake City. As we talked in hushed tones our voices reverberated back on our ears.

In the nave, which is some fifty-five feet in diameter, are effigies of knights long since dead. As we looked at these likenesses of members of the Knights Templar we noticed that some of them had their legs crossed. We were able to find out that crossed legs indicated that they did not die in battle.

We noted church service times on the placard out front in the event we would be around for a religious service. It would have been neat to have attended a service in such a place. However, we decided that we could hear a pint calling us by name to the nearest pub.

One Hit Wonder?

2011-03-29T19:10:00.002-04:00

In music, especially, we hear of "one hit wonders", those people who seem to come from nowhere, and suddenly every time you switch on the radio you hear their songs. Does anyone remember "The Pina Colada" song, and what ever happened to Rupert Holmes anyway? One hit wonders seem to be like shooting stars; they make a bright flash; then they're gone and forgotten. One such performer could have been James William, "Jimmy", Buffett who in 1977 had a hit song, "Margaritaville". Born on Christmas day, 1946 he grew up and was educated on the Gulf coast, Alabama and Mississippi. Buffett went to Nashville, Tennessee to make his mark as a country singer and recorded his first album in 1970. He continued to play for tips on the street, busking, frequently in New Orleans. While in Nashville he took a trip to Key West with singer-songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker to do some busking in the southernmost city of the country, and as they say, "The rest is history." There Buffett developed his musical style and defined a lifestyle as well. His music became known as "Gulf and Western", or country with a Caribbean flavor. The drinking, carousing, and partying on the beach in the tropics was depicted in many of his songs. A song on his fifth album, "Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," had the hit single, "Margaritaville". This song pretty much summed up the Buffett lifestyle. He gathered fans in legions. His organized fans are called Parrotheads and have chapters all over the USA.

However, the life style depicted in Buffett's songs say nothing about the business skills of Jimmy Buffett. He has made a lot of money and continues to. His income is estimated at over $50 million per year. Not bad for a one hit wonder. Actual numbers are fairly difficult to find. His business ventures are under the umbrella company of Margaritaville Holdings, LLC, which is a privately held company. His income comes from a number of sources.

Musicand other creative endeavors: His concerts and record sales. Concerts sell out and ticket prices are around $85 for the cheap seats. Last year's tour generated roughly $41 million.
He has cut back to 25 concerts per year. His record sales generate considerable income as well. Buffett owns his own record label, so instead of getting $1 per record he gets $5. He has made over 30 albums. Writing: He has produced three best sellers and co-authored two children's books. He has also written musical scores for movies and appeared in several movies in cameo roles.
Cheeseburger in Paradise restaurants, Margaritavilla Cafes, and Margaritaville stores generate another $16 million in income. Some restaurants are company owned, and others are licensed.
There are Margaritaville food products, clothing, and Landshark Lager produced by Anhauser Busch. On the label of Landshark Lager is a picture of "the Hemisphere Dancer", Buffett's seaplane. Margaritaville Tequila and Rum are produced by Seagrams along with other alcoholic beverages.
He owns part of two minor league baseball teams.
Hotels and Casinos: Two casino projects are under construction, one in Biloxi, Mississippi, a $48 million project with Harrah's, and one in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He recently put his Margaritaville brand on a new 162-bed hotel in Pensacola, Florida.
The NFL Dolphins Stadium, in Miami became Landshark Stadium in 2009. He never misses chance to promote his products.
Always an opportunist, Buffet is attempting to copyright the name "Tiger's Milk" for a vodka offering. "Tiger's Milk" was a label Charlie Sheen used for a certain libation.
His satellite radio station, Radio Margaritville, beams the music around the world.
Margaritaville outdoor furniture is slated to appear in spring, 2011.

Will Jimmy Buffett retire? Not while he enjoys doing what he's doing, according to him. Will his financial empire continue to grow? Probably. After all, Jimmy Buffet's empire doesn't depend on hits.

Not bad for a one hit wonder.

Links:
Jimmy Buffett 1
Jimmy Buffett 2
Jimmy Buffett 3 video
Jimmy Buffett 4
Jimmy Buffett Homepage

Cafe au lait

2011-03-28T08:18:00.003-04:00

We had been driving since early morning and decided to stop at the next town for coffee. After following what seemed like a multitude of spandex clad cyclists for quite a few kilometers before passing them I needed a little break. It was a village like most others, built of stone with the highest structure being the church. And across the street from the church was a cafe.

I eased the Peugeot to the curb and parked near the cafe. There are no marked parking spaces in French villages. You simply park where you find space out of the way of traffic. We found an empty table on the sidewalk of course. Only about three of the half dozen or so tables are occupied. There was a huge tree with a trunk about one meter in diameter in the center of the outdoor dining room. I relaxed and stretched a bit. It was good to get out from behind the wheel of the compact car. We waited what seemed like forever before realizing there was no wait staff. No one had pointed this out. The French aren't very chatty like the folks across the English channel. Perhaps because of some sort of language barrier? And, of course, everyone there was a local and knew there was no wait staff. In the small towns and villages we were ususally asked if we were English. Probably because of the language we spoke and because the people from the United Kingdom were the most common English speakers in France.

I went inside to the bar counter through sliding glass doors to get our two cafe au laits. They cost me two euros each; in Paris they would have cost me five each. It was good to relax in the morning shade with a nice coffee. It was reasonably quite. The old fellow reading the morning paper made little noise. But a group of men were having a very noisy card game. I remember six players. They seemed to range in ages from thirty to fifty-five and appeared to be delivery men, shopkeepers, carpenters and such. The French are extremely animated card players as they would throw their cards on the table with great fanfare. Usually with what seemed like an expletive. I'm sure I heard some good old Anglo-Saxon curse words in there somewhere. I think they were gambling and using small squares of colored paper for gambling chips. The game had a gallery of old men in hats and sweaters with walking canes looking on.

There was a table of French women too. And a young woman came by to chat with them. She had a small child in a stroller and she was impeccably dressed. From her high-heeled shoes to the perfect coiffure she looked fantastic. Perfectly color co-ordinated and made up. I'm not sure where she was going or just out with her offspring to be seen, but she was eye-candy. I can only say "Ah, the French!"

The helmeted cyclists in rainbow-colored Spandex went by quietly, like some sort of apparition. Much to my chagrin I would have to pass all of them again on a narrow French country road.

I had to use the restroom before we got back on the road. The barman pointed me in the right direction. Upon return to the table I voiced my opinion to my travel bud. If the French could build such technological wonders as the world's largest airliner, why couldn't they have a decent sit-down toilet? A few days earlier we seen Roman toilets from the first century that you sat on unlike the twenty-firsts century French ones you had to squat to use.

My travel bud decided she would wait until the next town and hope for a Roman style toilet.

A note about our mode of transport. The Peugeot 206+ diesel we rented in Roeun from what seemed to be the French equivalent of a 7-eleven. By renteng from an agent , Hertz, about ten blocks from the train station we saved about 50% on rental costs. Yes, you do pay for convience! I enjoyed driving the small car with standard 5-speed transmission. I had plenty of pep and easily kept up with traffic on the tollways at 130kph. The compact size was great in the narrow medieval streets too.