Yes You Can Go Home Again

Here I sit at the end of the pool beneath the shade of an ancient silvery olive tree. I look out over the rooftops the village down below and onto the bay beyond. I look back towards the house, a grand old maison, a part of which has become, if but for a while, my, no our home.
I contemplate writing this, a twisting-turning sort of a story, the outcome of which, even I cannot predict at this time.
The story is, in a sense, a double entendre, of two meanings.
It is in the lesser sense, in the moment. A story of this house, this village and how it has become our “home”. Six years ago we made our first acquaintance with that which is here, not knowing at the time how much of our lives would become entertwined, or just how much it could become our “home”.
Now, we had known for some time now, several years in fact, that it was our landlord’s intention to sell this house. This fact throwing our own future here somewhat into confusion. So, it was upon hearing of it’s sale this past January, we were forced to confront the new reality. Additionally, we have always come here in May/June/July, not in September/October as we would this year. We had been assured by the old landlords that the new landlords were “tres sympa”, very nice, and, yes, that it was their desire to continue the rental of the apartment that we consider “home”.
But how. How will it be? Different season, the market, the cafes, the weather, the beach. And... the different owners. It’s maybe a bit silly, but I’m always haunted by the thought, that in life, change one thing and the outcome will quite possibly be totally different.
So, it was with some trepidation that, this year I move on toward the “blue”. Toward this place, not entirely comfortable in the thought that all will be as it has been.
Yet...here I sit. My trepidations largely vanished. The new landlords, they are “tres sympa”. And... for the time being, the old landlords too are here, living in the apartment next to ours on the ground floor of this grand house while they await the completion of their new home. The people, the faces we know well here, are mostly all here. The market with it’s rich local bounty, just beginning to reflect Falls changes. Yes, a couple of our restaurants are gone, sad. And a couple of the shops have changed too. But, mostly, mostly it is familiar, sweetly familiar. So easy to just “slip back into”. It just feels right again!

Now it is the second part of this story that presents a far more daunting task.. It is the “metaphorical” “going home” that I attempt to wrestle with here.
Sandy recently told me that for years she has felt that I was a man out of his time. She now adds that she feels that I am a man out of his place as well. I would have to agree.
Until now, I have never really known what my time and or place should be, just feeling somewhat awkward about the whole matter. Perhaps, even adrift.
To establish what I feel will be an important perspective, I must first share with you when and where I am from. I grew up in the 1960's in a small town, of about 2000, let’s call it Barboursville. It was at this time, classic small town America. A few of the folks were wealthy, some unfortunately, truly poor. But mostly, they were working class middle America, all living out a roughly equal lifestyle. It was a good life!!
The little town had, as they say, life in it. It was basically just two main streets intersecting. But... it had two small groceries, a great hardware store, a pharmacy (no fountain), a bank and a florist. It had a post office, an auto parts store with the IOOF Lodge upstairs, a couple of very small clothing shops with traditional storefronts, a small shoe store and a library. There were elementary, junior and high schools, a couple of little snack counters (mostly for the schoolkids) and even a “beer joint”. At the corner of Main and Central was a memorial to the fallen of WW I & WWII. Oh, and... lotsa churches, all kinds. It was small and compact. I could walk to school, all of them. I could ride my bicycle, covering the whole town in a matter of 15 to 20 minutes. It was a good time and place to grow up in. As I said, it was a good life!
But, It was however, not to last for long. Those things that had been there in my father’s youth, they vanished quickly, and in my childhood. At that age you don’t really notice such things, they just are... But... looking back, I can now see just how quickly that life collapsed around me. How lucky I had been to experience the life of my father’s youth, if only for a few of my years.
My parents are both gone now. The home of my youth. Now someone else’s home. On a visit some years back, I felt like a visitor in this, the place of my youth.
No... I could not go home again... it was gone!
In the 30 some odd years I have never found a “home” in this sense. In the modern day mobile society, I’m not sure that we as economic nomads/refugees can ever find, or perhaps better put, allow ourselves the luxury of “going home again”.

So... it is with all of this being said that in the spring of 2006 I first stumbled upon this little village on the Cote d Azur of France that we shall now call St. Nazaire. In 15 or so years of mostly European travel, I have encountered many examples of some of the treasured memories of my home as a child. A traditional life, a good life can still be found here in it’s many small towns and villages. But, here too, it is under attack from the pressures of modern life.
But never. Never, in the past 30 years have I been smitten by a place such as I have this one. It was for me as if the most cherished memories of “home” were all here, but with more. Much more!
Here I found a real and living village. No, maybe not the fishing village of it’s past, although they're still here, but now one for tourist. But... people still work, live and raise families here. There are all of the shops that I remember as a child plus butchers, bakers, florists, clothing, shoes and arts. Lots and lots of them in fact. And, there’s small grocers, bigger and biggest. There’s a daily market, can you just believe it, and an enormous 150 tent weekly Provencal market unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Restaurants of all kinds and sidewalk cafes overlooking a harbor full of sailboats, the masts spread out before me.
And it is alive, it is so beautiful and it all works! Again, a good life!
I don’t have a car here, really don’t need it. You can walk, it’s quite compact with many pedestrian streets. Everything that I need is nearby. I have a velo (bicycle) for those trips to the nearby towns, and... guess what? Many have bike lanes to them. They’re used to bicycles and people walking here, it all seems to have been laid out for that. Even those driving the cars seem to somehow know to look out for the bikes and walkers.
I can be on an awesome beach in 5-10 minutes. There is bus service to the nearby towns, every hour at least. And... and... a train station! Yes, right here in town there is a train station. You can hear the trains gliding through the town every few minutes. We can ride our velos up to the station, lock them in the provided stand with the others, lotsa others, scooters too! Buy a ticket and by days end be almost anywhere we might imagine.
How cool is that?
It is a place that is remarkably designed for living.
It is ...a great quality of life.
It is... home... but better.
I never dreamt it to be possible, but... yes, you can go home again!!

And... I have found my time an place!

KC

The Nut Man

The Nut Man

Here in this small former fishing village on the Cote d'Azur lives the "nut man". I use this term "nut man" as a term of endearment to describe this man who appears to make his living selling nuts. These are what we would call pralines, they are coated with a sugar and spice mixture and are actually quite tasty. The nut man sells his wares to the tourists that pack the small cafés that front the harbor of this small village. The nut man knows all of the staff in the cafés and all the regulars that show up at the same café daily. He even remembers us from year to year. The nut man is by most standards a good looking man and he positively oozes charm. He moves from table to table passing out free sample nuts to those he hopes to will buy a bag or two. He also passes out the nuts to the regulars; I have even seen some go up and ask for one.

When the nut man is working, he can be all business as he moves quickly thru the cafés passing out samples and circling back to see who wants to buy. He is the consummate professional selecting nuts from his tray with tongs to lay in front of the potential customer. The bags of nuts are artfully arranged on the metal platter that he carries with one hand lifted high like a waiter; you can only imagine that this would build incredible upper body strength. I always liked the nut man, you like him the first time he hits you up with the sample nut in the hopes of selling you a bag. We buy a bag from time to time because they are really good and who wouldn't want to support a man that can make a living selling nuts to tourists sitting in sunny seaside cafés.

From time to time he takes a break and stashes his tray full of nuts at the bar of our favorite café. This frees him up to have a seat with some of the regulars. It seems, not surprisingly, that the nut man is good with the ladies. He is always sitting with some ladies while others often stop and give him the quintessentially French greeting of kisses on both cheeks lingering maybe just a wee bit longer than typical.

One day when we were sitting in the café an older woman with a walker aided by what appeared to be her daughter, walked by. Just in front of the café the woman appeared to have some mild sort of tremors and started to fall. Her daughter had a hold of one arm, I got to her and got the other arm to try to keep her from falling; Kevin was trapped behind some tables and chairs and could not make it to her. Out of nowhere the nut man appeared at the woman's side. She was starting to slip to the ground because the daughter and I could not support her. The nut man steppped squarely behind her, put his arms under her arms and clasped his hands in front of her chest and lifted her straight up to her feet. The tremors seemed to have passed and she was able to walk on. I was touched by his aide to this woman providing the assistance she needed while still maintaining her dignity.

Yeah I always adored the nut man, now I adore him even more.
A bientot,
Cousin Sandy

Beaun Ces't Bon

Beaune is the epicenter of what is arguably, the most prestigious wine region in the world. There is hardly a person in this town who does not directly or indirectly profit from the wine industry that is Burgundy. The place positively oozes with wine. It is the reason that one comes here!
Oui!!
The sumptuous wines, the rich Burgundian cusine and the promise of a bike ride through beautiful villages and vineyards bearing the most prestigious names and appelations in the world. It is enough to make a sommelier drool.
La Voie Des Vignes (The Vineyard Trail) is literally on the edge of Beaune. As is the case in most small to mid-sized towns in France, finding bicycle rentals is no problem. A short ride around the medieval walls of Beaune and, voila!! You are out in the vineyards. For as far as the eye can see, thousands of acres of vines, that together make up what is known as the "Cote du Beaune".
Passing through the little villages, each seemingly more beautiful than the one before. Pommard, Volnay, Mersault, Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne-Montrachet and finally into Santenay. It reads like a wine list you might find in any of the finest restaurants.
The vendange, the harvest, is in it's final stages, having come a couple of weeks early this year. Everywhere, you are passed by the odd H-shaped tractors, designed to straddle the rows of vines, towing their trailers loaded to the brim with their precious cargo. Here you will find only two grapes. The Pinot Noir for rich Burgundian reds and the Chardonnay (the town is nearby) for the tart largely un-oaked whites.
Everywhere I look, it's all about the grapes. Picking, sorting, de-stemming, the crush and... the smells! My god, you can smell them rising up from the sun drenched slopes. The trailers laden with the grapes, they dribble their juices onto the pavement during their journey to the winery. The "rasiney" smells rising up to my nostrels as I ride, the smell of finely aged fruitcake.
And... the must!!! The must, the freshly fermenting grapes in their vats. In every village you pass through, the you cannot miss the earthy rich aroma of the must. It is... oh god, a deeply sensuous experience. Everywhere, everywhere, it is the grape!! My kinda place!!
The vineyard trail itself is a delight. It is a knitted network of farm roads through the vineyards, shared only with those odd tractors trailering their bounty. You're right in the thick of it!!!
Billed as slightly hilly, I would beg to disagree just a little on this point. It was pretty hilly. We had 21 speed bicycles, I found all 21, right down to #1. At one point, on the approach to Mersault, I swear that I was passed by a toddler chasing his mother up the hill. But... what goes up, must come down, and that was the fun part. And... the views, the views that the hills afforded were beyond words.
We wisely, didn't stop along the way for beaucoup tastings. At 12 miles down to Santenay and 12 miles back to Beaune, and with the "slightly hilly" trail, I think that would have been a grave mistake.
No, it's back to Beaune and Marche du Vines (Wine Market). There we will taste our way through the 17 wines of the "Route of the Vines". From there, no matter our state, we only have to totter a couple of blocks back to our Auberge Burguigone.

Avoir, Cousin

Postcards From Annecy/The French Lunch

Postcards From Annecy

The old town of Annecy France is yet another of those almost too-cute Alpine resort towns that they do so well in these parts. Situated at the mouth of tres-beautiful Lac Annecy, the lake flows lazily through town via a series of manmade canals. The old mediaeval buildings seem to “grow” right out of the waters edge. Narrow walkways skirt and petite stone bridges cross the canal leading you from one sweet little canal-side café or restaurant to the next. To say that it is picturesque is a cliche.
Yes, we came here for the “cute”, but mostly for the lake. I know that there is a “piste cyclable” bicycle path running the entire length of Lac Annecy and I have heard that it is nothing short of
awesome. Rental bikes, no problem, and we are on our way. It’s a lovely late Summers day, warm, breezy and blue sky with puffy white clouds. My kinda’ day!
The path follows the road and the lakeside for a couple of miles, then shifts away from the road to follow the lakeshore on what would appear to be an abandoned rail road bed.. Mostly flat, incredibably scenic, and most of all, enchanting turquoises Lac Annecy “following” on my left.
12-13 miles of pure riding bliss!! And, most of all, I know that if we should get tired or, heaven forbid we eat or drink too much for lunch, we can just hop on one of the lake steamers and ride back to Annecy. Now, how sweet is that?

The French Lunch

Now, the real “meat” of this story revolves around the classic French version of lunch (dejuner).
It is my intention through this posting and others in this series to give a glimpse into some of the qualities that make the French culture unique. What makes them French if you will.
At the top of the lake, we’re both getting a little hungry and I happen to spy a little restaurant by the trail, in of all places in what appears to be an industrial park. Hummm? I know that these little roadside restaurants or, restaurant de route, are quite popular among truck drivers and workmen and that they are often the source of a not too spectacular but none-the-less very good meal. Bon (good)!
Let me paint a picture. Sandy and I pull up on our bikes, not the only ones at this point. The café appears relatively new and has a grouping of umbrella covered tables out front. We opt for a free table outside. The view? Dramatic stony mountain ridges tower above the green slopes above Lac Annecy. A folding blackboard announces the daily special as is typical. And... the place is busy, yes very busy, way out here.
Now, across from us I immediately notice a table of six men, construction workers I judged by their clothing and well... by those two big white dump trucks parked nearby. Nothing remarkable about this you say? Well... one of the first things I notice is that they are all about the same age, 20's - 30's dressed in clean workmens clothes, not ratty as is often the case back home, no-one is fat or showing “plumbers butt” and most of all no ball caps in sight. They don’t wear them here. Next you notice that their conversation, though convivial , is neither loud nor obnoxious. It is a remarkably well behaved table and everyone seems to be enjoying one-anothers company. On to the next little surprise, everyone of them is enjoying an aperitif (a little before the meal drink to stimulate the appetite) , a Pastis to be exact, the anise flavored liquor native to Marseille. You add cold water to the gold liquor in the glass and it turns milky. It’s yummy, but...can you imagine this scene at the corner diner somewhere back in rural North Carolina?
The chalkboard post today’ special, the plat du jour, blue plate special if you will. A green salad with Roquefort cheese and apple slices, a roast leg of lamb in green peppercorn sauce, a cauliflower gratin and desert of the day, torte myrtille (blueberry tart). Can you just imagine? You know what I had for lunch!
But... so did the guys across from us, all six of them. Me, I’m hot and thirsty, so when the waitress arrives I order a biere pression (draft) , but them... they order two pitchers of local red wine. Again, bubba aint gonna do that at the corner diner. Our waitress, an English lass of, as they say there, “a certain age”, from Plymouth, via Disneyland Paris (seriously I couldn’t make this up) comes by a bit , quite a bit later to take our order in perfect French. Lunch arrives, after theirs of course on real china plates, real knives and forks, no paper or plastic. They wouldn’t have it any other way! Baskets of sliced baguette, quite naturally, appear, the workmen, theirs exhausted go back for more bread.
Now, lunch, as it does here, stretches into an hour, an hour and a half, towards two hours.
It’s all quite normal! It’s just the way things work here.... every day!
Okay. Our and their lunch is winding down. Blueberry tarts appear for all... delicious. Me, by now I’m on my second, no maybe third beer, I don’t remember. But they, by now each of them order a little “pot-of-mud” espresso which of course let’s one know when the meal is complete. Well, how else would you know?
Le addition sil-vous-plaits, the bill please. Each of the workmen pays his bill, in cash of course, small coin left as a tip (it’s the custom) and a couple of them seem to know madame, our waitress. Everyone says merci avoir, thank you good bye, but the two rise to kiss her on both cheeks. Off they go and load up into the two white trucks, just a typical everyday lunch for these guys.
How cool is that?

Now, our lunch complete, the bill paid, are we able to make it back to Annecy? Oh yeah, just about. A leisurely, very leisurely pedal , Lac Annecy now following on my right, all the way back to Annecy. One of those too-cute little canalside cafes awaits, two chairs with our name on them, a chilled carafe of vin blanc and two glasses.
Bon! Tres bon!

Avoir,
KC

Almost As Good As Sex!

Mini blog here. Just arrived by train in Beaune, France, epicenter, so to speak of the wine scene in Burgundy. 20 minutes in, we're already off to a little sidewalk cafe and a 6 page wine menu, whoa, you gotta be kiddin' me! Too much, overload, think I'll just have a nice bottle of a Macon blanc(unoaked Chardonnay) Yummy but, wow, at 13.5% and on a relatively empty stomach, I sure feel that!
Back to the Auberge du Burguignonne for a bit of a lie down.
The Auberge, a restaurant with some nice rooms upstairs, had looked promising as this evenings destination, so... reservation made.
7h30, a sweet little dining room awaits. Cocktail? Sure, I'll have a kir (white wine & cassis liquor and Sandy has a cremant & frambois liquor (local sparkling wine and raspberry liquor). Oh yeah, we're on our way now!
Monsieur desiree un entree, oui, yes I would like an appitizer. Why do they call it an entree? Oh, OK, start, enter, I get it!
Oui , I would like the escargot bourguignonne (local snails served in the shell with butter, garlic and parsley) hey! This is where they started! Think I'll have a glass , oops, one for Sandy too, of Aligote (white chablis) to wash them down.
OK, moment of truth for Sandy. No arm twisting on my part at all, she's gung-ho, and she's all liquored up. Here goes, I love um, she's screwing up the courage. Now then, that wasn't so bad, was it? No she says, there not really bad at all. Wow!!!
Can you belive that!! Sop up the butter and garlic with the endless slices of baguette.
Tonight, all the Burgandy cliches. Next, beouf bourguignonne. A beef stew of good red wine with mushrooms and pearl onions served with buttered noodles. Oh yeah. But... best of all the wine. I love Burgundy wine, but, a bit pricey is a fitting description. Tonight, almost no holds barred. A 2006 Aloxe-Corton (half bottle) oughta do the trick.
Rapturous, yes rapturous best describes it! Sandy's with me on this one, her eyes almost rolling back in her head with delght. She think's it taste like velvet. Oui!
Monsieur-madam would like desert. God I'm full and I know I shouldn't, but what the hell. For me, fresh pears poached in red Burgundy and Sandy had a homemade creme brulee made with bourbon vanilla. her's was awesome but mine was.... well, better. Actually it was better than better.
Coffee? Sure, why not! Tiny little pot of mud (expresso) appears, I did't even think I liked this stuff! Oh yeah! So we totter off and up the stairs to our room, god I'm glad I don't have to drive, and I fall into bed, and, oh yes, in a bit of a drunken haze I write this crazy little post.
Avoir,
KC

Sorry, no pics for this one.

Lake Geneva, "Smoke on the Water", Vines in the Sky

Our last time in Switzerland was 09 September 2001. I will not, however, recount the details of that experience, other than to say that the Swiss were truly empathetic and supportive of us during those trying times.
This is a small and curious little country with four distinct regions, each speaking a different first language. French, German, Italian and Romansch, an odd “mouthful of marbles” sing-song dialect unique to the eastern mountians.
However, the country as a whole has a number of unifying qualities. It is all unbelievably beautiful. The people are always friendly and welcoming. But, for all this beauty and hospitality, the Swiss have a well honed ability to empty your pockets. No matter how much money you arrive with, they have an uncanny ability to part you from it down to the last centime, always with that friendly and welcoming smile. Indeed!
Lausanne, home of the International Olympics Committee, is no exception. Located in the French speaking area , it is situated on the edge of uber-beautiful Lake Geneva. It is as people friendly and livable mid-sized city as you’re likely to find anywhere. It is tres Swiss! We stay in the photogenic old town, high above it all, only the great cathedral above us, originally Catholic, then to become the home church of John Calvin and his view of the Protestant Reformation. Our hotel, the Regina, offered us a lovely night time view of this cathedral, lit against the night sky.
Thankfully, there was a modern subway/funnicular to wisk us effortlessly up from the lakeside, the train station, to the old town. Perfect !
Our first night in town, a lovely meal at an old landmark, the Romand. A turn of the century (20th) brasserie in the Parisian sense. It offered all of the predictable favorites, and.... the local lake perch, filleted, sauteed in butter and sauced with a silky menuiere, Served with little steamed potatoes buttered and sprinkled with parsley, it was a sublime combination. Washed down with a carafe of local Villette from neighboring Grandvaux, delightful! Even my Sandy with her newfound taste for fish, a big thumbs up!
The tab, ouch!! About US$100. See what I mean!
Now, I come to these parts for two things. Notably the vineyards and the fine walking. Here they come as a four star package deal.
Hop the lakeside train in Lausanne up to Vevey and catch the little vineyard train up to little Chexbres. Climbing through the vineyards as we rose high above Lake Geneva. Picturesque doesn’t begin to do it justice. Jaw droppingly beautiful just about does! It’s warm. It’s sunny. We feel great. The jet-lag, now a forgotten memory.
It’s about a 10-12 mile walk, starting in the too-cute little village of Chexbres, where even the public WC was adorned with a festoon of blooms surrounding a babbling fountian. Up, down, across and most of all through the vineyards. That’s it and all about it!! You felt almost “eaten alive by all those vines”. They begin at the lakeshore and rise , terraced, up the slopes for as far as you can see. A “patchwork quilted” sea of vines. I’m in Kevin heaven. Can’t seem to make much time on this walk, takin’ too many pictures, the perfect shot presenting itself at every turn. Oh well, could have worse problems.
About half way along and we find ourselves in the petite village of Grandvaux. Time for lunch. Uh-oh, look’s like one of those “museum villages”, you know, high on beauty, low on people and services. I had bet on lunch here and so far... just wineries. Ok, down to the end of what seems the last rue in this little village, and, voila!! A restaurant. Whew!!
Patio seating, overlooking the vineyard shrouded hills and the brooding “smoke covered” (e.g. Deep Purple) Lake geneva far below. Outa sight!!
Une table pour deux sil-vous-plait. The young pretty Asian waitress seats us beneath a magical sycamore tree. Menu’s presented, I open mine.... huh? What the hell? I look over my shoulder at the restaurant front across the street... Restaurant Chinois.
How? How in this tiny village in the middle of nowhere in French speaking Switzerland, is this a Chinese Restaurant? Oh well, the menu is cool. A sorta light and fresh approach to Chinese cuisine. Me a saute of shrimp with fresh ginger and scallions. Sandy, a saute of chicken with fresh pineapple and mixed peppers, served in the hollowed out pineapple. A local Villette from this village of Grandveaux completed the meal. Yuuum!! Light, easy on the tummy and with a view to die for, and... all for the low low price of, you guessed it, US$100. Once again, ouch!!
Now about half way through the meal, in saunter two Asian fellows who have obviously been walking the same trail as us. I look over at Sandy and remark, think we were surprised, imagine them. Why, they could even order their meal in Chinese. Just imagine the odds of that.
You know me, as we were about to leave, I just had to step over to their table and ask if they spoke English. Yeah, sure they reply in faultless English. I then ask them if they were a little surprised to happen across , of all things, a Chinese Restaurant on this walk in this little town in the middle of wine country. No... not at all was the reply. Uh-oh. That was a bit short. I think I may have offended them, you know, Chinese, Chinese Restaurant. Perhaps that was a bit too stereotypical of me. Are you Swiss? No, we are Chinese. Yes, yes, I know you speak Chinese, but have you been here before. No, we live in central Switzerland.
And.... not being able to leave it alone.... You’re not at all surprised by this? A Chinese restaurant, all the way up here, the only restaurant in this little village? No, of course not. We’re Chinese and we’re taking over the world, don’t you know? Well there now. That sure put me in my place, didn’t it. Oh well, enjoy your walk, Avoir.
Another couple of hours or so, trekking through the vines, more gorgeous views, the vineyards, the lake far below, and we finally ease into little Lutry, Lutry Station to be exact. Catch our train, the S-3 and back to Lausanne in a matter of minutes.
Not quite the end to a perfect day, the evening awaits, but it will be tough to top this day.
It is about time to move on, I’m nearly outta Swiss Francs and as you’ve seen, Switzerland don’t work too well without them.
Guess I’ll just keep movin' on towards the blue.