Adeus a Portugal; Bonjour encore, la France

Our six weeks in the western end of the Algarve in Portugal just flew by, one glorious day after another where I more often than not sat inside working instead of enjoying the sun but was still happy to be there. We did take the occasional walks together on the beach, my friend and I and our brother-and-sister dogs. The promised heated pool never materialized, sadly, as there had been a cold spell when we first arrived and they just couldn’t get it up to temperature fast enough to make it cost-effective—we were only paying to heat it once it got up to the promised temp, which it never did, despite trying for about 10 days. Still, that didn't stop us from sitting around it, soaking up the sun during the warm afternoons.

Although a beautiful place, which we rebooked before we left for next year, upping our commitment from six to nine weeks—I must have had Innis drunk on caipirinhas when she agreed to put up with me for that long a period—there was little of consequence to blog about. One can only talk about so many glorious beaches for so long.

The adventures didn’t start until it was time to head back. We typically take a leisurely drive, stopping in several places along the 1600-kilometer drive down and this was no different.  In fact, Innis, having done truly the lion’s share of the cooking the entire six weeks while I pecked away at my laptop, had booked our stops at places where she felt we would have a decent meal and was quite looking forward to enjoying some good food and wine without having to provide it herself.

We spent our first night in Portugal at a nice enough place (especially after the disaster we’d encountered on our way down when we stopped at what we thought would be a charming B&B, Casa do Brigadeiro and has now become our conversational point of comparison: “Well, at least it’s not a Casa do Brigadeiro!”), however the restaurant was a considerable disappointment. The breakfast was equally dismal, with unarguably the worst coffee I have ever had since I arrived in Europe (not including in Austria and the Czech Republic), and, well, the rest doesn’t even merit recounting. Still, we really liked the front desk staff.

We brushed that letdown off the next morning and headed into Spain. A rustic place out in the country while still being literally a stone’s throw from the motorway, the staff were lovely. We were quite tired so we decided to just order a platter of cold meats and cheeses with a bottle of cold white wine and watch a movie in our room. However, we arose late the next morning, getting down to breakfast only at 10am. Despite promising a buffet until 10:30, the bartender (the same man who’d delivered our fare the night before) apologized profusely and tried to explain in Spanish what the items were that we could choose from that he would bring us instead. We ended up with a relatively traditional if spare European breakfast of rolls, cold meats and cheese, but, oh, the most heavenly coffee. Even Innis, not a coffee drinker, had two cups. Without question, I believe Spain has the best coffee in Europe.

After breakfast we whisked the dogs and bags into the car and headed for France. We have had reasonably good experiences stopping at various motorway places for lunch but this trip would not provide a single one, as we were discovering. Still, the place we stopped at in Spain had one thing going for it, as it turned out.

After quite an unimpressive lunch which we were happy to rush, something we don't typically do, and hit the road, we headed to our next stop: two nights in Saint Jean de Luz near Biarritz, reaching the hotel just minutes before six o’clock in the evening. No sooner did we get out of the car when my heart nearly stopped. I had no purse. Innis reassured me it had to be in the car somewhere but I knew right away I had left it on the back of my chair at the rest stop in Spain. I felt sick. It contained my camera, complete with photos yet to be downloaded, my Irish passport, my wallet with credit and bank cards, and no less than two hundred and fifty euros that I had only just withdrawn.

I had had an excruciatingly unpleasant experience on March 3^rd of 2007 when I was robbed at a motorway stop and my tire slashed and it had left me with an uneasy feel about Spain, despite other delightful experiences. But, despite those horrible memories, something inside me was convinced that, if I returned, I’d get it all intact except maybe the cash. That, I reasoned, would be an undeserved miracle.

Innis was justifiably irritated at my stupidity. Still, we were lucky enough to have our receipt so, even though it didn’t have a phone number, Innis suggested we have the hotel clerk try to reach the motorway stop so I wouldn’t have to drive down and back in the dark. The clerk was charming and, as luck would have it, since we were right on the Spanish border, she spoke sufficient Spanish to be able to call. It took a bit of researching on her part and several calls but Amandine persevered and was finally connected to the motorway café. Lo and behold, they had the purse. Yes, they assured Amandine, it had contents; it wasn’t empty. (The purse was a gift from a very dear friend so even that was precious to me.)

The following morning Innis insisted on coming with me so I wouldn't have to undergo it all alone so, after breakfast, we packed the poor dogs back in the car to make the 90-minute drive back south. We reached the stop at lunchtime (but both agreed it wasn’t worth eating there!) and were fairly confident that we’d communicated who we were and why we were there. The staff spoke no English but one waitress waved at us to sit down and wait. And wait we did. For half an hour, completely disconcerted because we had no idea what was taking so long or whether we’d in fact been as successful as we’d first thought in conveying that we were there to pick up a handbag that had been left behind the previous day.

Finally, a young man, the manager, rushed in from the back room, holding my handbag. He had been the one to find it, fortunately. We barely had time to thank him before he disappeared again with a brief smile. I checked the contents. Everything was there. Even the cash. I was so grateful.

Still, less than two hours later, it felt good to be back in France.

Bienvenue à Portugal

God has a sense of humor. Or at least He has a way of drawing contrasts in order to amplify our appreciation of certain creature comforts that we may have been taking for granted.

Saturday morning, my friend and I packed the car with our suitcases and the dogs and began our seven-week sojourn with a four-day amble down to the southwest corner of the Algarve in Portugal, spending our first two nights at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, by Biarritz, followed by another overnight seven or so hours south of that, before arriving here in Lagos yesterday evening. Biarritz is always lovely in the winter although rain threatened, as they bend the rules barring dogs from the beaches and it's one big play date for all sorts of breeds. Despite it being late January — we have admittedly had a milder than normal winter — the surfers were out in force while we tourists huddled in our scarves, sweaters and rain gear.

Monday we had breakfast in France, lunch in Spain and then arrived just before sundown at our overnight stop in Lageosa do Mondego, Portugal, at a six-room bed and breakfast, Casa do Brigadeiro, in the 19th century family home of our host, Fernando, who lives next door (for good reason we soon realized). In typical old-fashioned style, the interiors were all darkly paneled, including the ceilings. From the booking.com site, it looked charming. However, the advertised central heating radiators were barely lukewarm to the touch (and went off during the night as we later discovered) and, according to my travel clock, our room's interior temperature was a chilly 50 degrees. Our room was huge, with high ceilings that stole what little warmth might have been afforded, with the dim glow of two ceiling-mounted fluorescent bulbs that barely threw off sufficient light to navigate the equally dark furniture.

Despite promises of hot water for the showers we'd hoped to take before bed, that also never materialized. Instead, we donned two sweaters apiece and huddled in our beds desperate for warmth. (Thank God we economized by springing for only one room with twin beds; we'd have had a fit if we'd had to each pay $100 for such miserable accommodations.)

Breakfast consisted of cold rolls with rock hard butter, no doubt at room temperature based on our visible breaths, and a pot of weak instant coffee that became cold as soon as it hit the frigid coffee cup. Needless to say, our nerves were frayed and tempers short, as we wasted no time escaping the place. It took fully a half hour with the heater on full blast in the car for our fingers and toes to finally stop stinging. Even the dogs, good travelers but understandably tired of hours upon end in the car, were anxious to jump in and hit the motorway.

Our arrival last night at the villa which we will call home for the next six weeks was a distinct relief. White airy rooms furnished with beautiful antiques, sufficient hot water for both of our delayed and eagerly anticipated showers, and walled-in gardens for the dogs to safely scamper around unfettered, had us starting to relax. The pool looks lovely and we look forward to heating it next week. Temperatures here are in the low 60s with lots of sun — the best winter they've had in a long while, we were told by the owner — and we're just a short walk to the beaches.

My one challenge will be to find a work surface sufficiently high enough that I'm not hunched over the laptop, but one that gives me privacy to work in peace while my friend enjoys herself without worrying about disturbing me. Right now, we're eyeing the patio table on the terrace outside my bedroom.

All in all, I'd say we've fallen on our feet. These six weeks will no doubt fly by.

La Nouvelle Année the French Way

This year I received what I've been told is an inordinate honor — an invitation to spend New Year's Eve at the home of a French family over dinner. Even to be invited for simple aperitifs on any given day is an honor if you're a foreigner (or ex-pat, as the Brits prefer to refer to themselves) but a formal holiday?

The French reserve Christmas for children and New Year's Eve for adults, so it's quite the big thing. I had been at a dinner organized in a restaurant weeks earlier for a group of us who had helped friends, Rosemary and Wallace, move out of their maison secondaire in Cussay, which had just been sold, and into another home in nearby Descartes. Rosemary insisted on a charming practice during that four-course meal where she'd seated everyone (as much as possible) boy-girl-boy-girl, where, at the end of every course, the men stood up, grabbed their knife and fork and glass and moved to the recently vacated spot nearest to their right. In this way, at every course, we had a new dinner partner. I confess I was a bit nervous because two of the four men were French, one who spoke a little English and one none at all. I always get nervous in these situations but I've been assured I can hold my own fairly well as long as the other speaks slowly and distinctly and doesn't mind my fudging my conjugations a bit. Actually, it turned out to be quite energizing and enjoyable.

In any case, one couple, Corine and Patrick, who also live in Cussay, invited me for New Year's Eve dinner when they found out I had no plans. My friend, Innis, who was seated at the far side of our huge square table, was also invited when I mentioned we were going to spend Christmas together. I was so pleased she accepted because, in truth, I was a little nervous at the idea of possibly being immersed in a sea of French people without much in the way of small talk vocabulary.

Turned out I hadn't a thing to worry about. What we thought was going to be a party of French people turned out to be a delightful family dinner instead. Patrick, who does speak a little English, got the short shrift because Corine's English is so good that both Innis (fairly fluent) and I lapsed into English for most of the night. Innis took pity on what she knew would be Patrick's tired ear and did converse with him for some time in French. By that hour I was too tired to translate much of what they said.

One of the funnier moments of the evening involved Corine telling a story to Innis — I can't even remember about what — who was seated opposite me, on her right. At one point Corine rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "Merde!" (Which, for those of you who aren't aware, is French for "shit.") She immediately turned to me in horror, fearing I'd be offended, clapped her hand over her mouth and said, quite inadvertently in English, "Oh, shit, sorry!" We were rolling in laughter. It took Corine a moment to realize how she'd managed to compound her error before she joined the laughter.

In true French style, we were invited for 8:30pm. The first course was served promptly at 11pm and when the main course came out, I just happened to glance at my watch to see it was two minutes to midnight. So of course we had to put our knives and forks down, stand, toast each other and heap kisses on the cheeks of every person there. (Corine's 9-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son were there and, frankly, held up better, considering the late hour, than we did.) By the time we'd finished, waved off the cheese course and went right to dessert, it was 2am. By then my eyes were closing and I was so grateful I wasn't driving. Actually, that was a tame night by French standards as on their normal 'fête' nights, they're often up until 5am or later, even the kids and the elderly. Their stamina is amazing, but might have something to do with the fact that they show considerably more restraint in the wine consumption department than the rest of us!

Overall, it was a wonderful evening and I felt immeasurably touched by the fact that this French couple had invited us into their home to share a holiday meal at their table with two veritable strangers. No longer strangers, however. It really was a wonderful way to usher in the New Year.

Happy 2012!

Joyeux Noël

This is why I don't make New Year's resolutions. I not all that long ago resolved to maintain my blog weekly (what was I thinking?) and yet here it is about six weeks since the last post and two months before that. This is why my New Year's resolutions typically boil down to one: don't make any New Year's resolutions (particularly after a glass or two of Champagne). 

Christmas has taken on a whole new dimension since I ditched my solid salaried job and left the USA for a freelance career tucked in a little country circa 1800 farmhouse (well, outbuilding of a former farm spread; it could have been the original pig sty or chicken coop for all I know). Making about 20% of my former wage means that splashy gifts are a thing of the past and the tiny table that I can squeeze four around means that it's a bit challenging doing the scale of entertaining I've done in the past. But that's okay. 

I'm loving the new Christmas, sans high pressure shopping in huge malls spending more than I make now in a month, no more brining huge turkeys (not at $15 a pound anyway) that arguably might not even fit in my oven, should it be possible to even find a bird as big as they mutate them in the US, and no starting my planning weeks, even a month, in advance formulating complicated menus and to do lists.

Instead, the last few Christmases have been very low stress, sometimes never getting out of pajamas, hanging out grazing on cold or hot buffets that we've built or bought over the course of a few days and doing whatever we feel like doing, such as walking Tilly and her brother, Finlay, my friend's dog.

Today, we spent the first half of Christmas Eve in the medieval village of Loches where we bought our last few charcuterie items, such as a roast pheasant with pear, some boucheres with creamed seafood (in huge vol au vent puff pastry cups) and such, then dropped into nearby friends this evening bearing torches, gifts and singing Christmas carols, which the one friend said nearly reduced her to tears. (I confessed the sound of our voices has often been known to evoke such a response.)

Tomorrow will be a holiday first for me--dinner out at a Michelin-starred restaurant with a group of likeminded, carefree friends intent on wringing every crumb of enjoyment from the holiday and focusing on being grateful for the blessings in our lives.

Tilly, meanwhile, has been haranguing me with whining cries ever since I hung up her Christmas stocking — would someone please tell me how she could possibly know there's anything tucked inside for her? — a reminder of childhood impatience as to when the tearing of giftwrap was finally considered permissible.

Even among my friends here, the agreement is that gifts remain unquestionably modest, again taking the pressure off so that we can enjoy the days leading up to the holidays.

That said, decorating took a decided backseat to work this year, as I've been quite inundated with large projects, yet another thing to be quite grateful for. Although the lifestyle is a bit hermit-like and the pressure intense during certain cycles, I have the freedom to work at 6am or 11pm. I confess I did regret not having had time to put up my tree, especially since it sits outside in the porch which means the neighbors get to enjoy it, too, but, as they say, c'est la vie. There just wasn't time. The French don't go in for splashy decorations anyway, although the villages do put up nice, mostly handmade decorations by volunteer residents.

I guess if I have any New Year's resolution, it's to find a wee bit more balance between my work and personal time, as I'm far too quick to put work above all else, including "Tilly time." And she does deserve at least one walk a day.

I hope everyone has a Joyeux Noël and a very Bonne Année, and may we realize that, with all the troubles that we deal with, that God has indeed bestowed on us more blessings than worries. May 2012 be a return to prosperity, continued good health and a reminder that time is precious — we need to seize each day as if it were our last and put all regrets behind us. Now, please pass the foie gras ...

Finding Peace

November 11^th is Armistice Day in Europe, marking the day the Allies and the Germans signed the peace treaty ending World War One. It was deliberately scheduled at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. An 11-11-11 to signify that it truly was all quiet on the western front. So it’s a national holiday here.

Having a respite from the spate of wet weather we’ve been having, I stopped working mid-afternoon to take my long-suffering Tilly, my 2-year-old Coton-terrier mix out for a well-deserved walk. Heaven knows, she's lucky these days if she gets more than one or two a week, as my work is so demanding.

We live in the Parc naturel régional de la Brenne, a major refuge for birds and other wildlife. I drove Tilly to nearby Preuilly-sur-Claise where we parked in the national forest, and we headed off into one of the many forest paths, me with a map in my pocket as I’m notorious for getting lost walking in a straight line.

It was a lovely walk and Tilly charged back and forth, skidding through the carpet of crunching, somewhat damp leaves, getting impossibly muddy and having a marvelous time. I thought, as I walked along the empty trails how safe I felt, how few of the dangers of much of the world this part of France contains. I had a moment where I felt a frisson of fear that I might encounter some sanglière, some wild boar, who would make short work of my 3-plus-kilo friendly ball of white fluff.

I began wishing for signs of other walkers and was reminded of a comment my mother once made when I was younger about her early days in Blessington, Co. Wicklow in Ireland. She lived in a fairly remote area and said that, if one was walking down those dark country roads (much like rural France now, the country roads there were hardly strung with streetlights) and one saw a figure in the distance, one prayed it was a live person and not a ghost. I smiled, thinking that, indeed, here in this part of France, it’s practically the same. You welcome the sight of a fellow human striding toward you when you’re out in the wilderness alone.

In the distance, I saw two figures rising above a crest ahead, heading toward us, and felt myself relax. After some moments, I saw they had a dog. I had a split second of concern, realizing I hadn’t brought Tilly’s leash but then she’s far from aggressive, tentatively approaching other dogs while whimpering to let them know she’s not going to attack.

As we got closer, I saw that the dog, quite young but very big, was being held by the collar by the female half of this French couple. When the dog caught sight of Tilly, it nearly yanked its owner off her feet several times as she struggled to control it. When we were about twenty feet distant, I heard her order, “Assis!” (Sit.) The dog was indeed very young, at least part Alsatian and very big. The owner struggled to get her dog to continue sitting as we approached. Meanwhile, her husband, who’d walked on ahead, gave me a friendly smile and “bonjour” as he passed.

As we drew abreast of the woman with the dog, Tilly uncharacteristically glued herself to my leg, putting me between her and the dog, giving off her typical little whimpers, keeping her eyes glued on the other animal. The woman and I greeted each other with the standard “bonjour,” Tilly and I on one side of the path and the woman on the other, with easily eight feet between us. I continued on my way, Tilly now looking forward, trotting happily at my ankle.

When we were about ten or fifteen feet beyond the woman, I heard a rush of leaves and turned to look over my left shoulder. The woman had released the dog and it was running full-tilt towards her husband who was a good distance beyond. All of a sudden, the dog turned and began tearing toward Tilly (me, too, although I didn’t stop to think of that at the time). By the time I could turn back to find Tilly to scoop her up, the dog was on her.

Stunned, I watched as the large Alsatian sank its teeth into the back of Tilly’s neck and lifted her off her feet in its jaws, Tilly squealing in high-pitched terror. It ran further down the path before stopping and throwing its weight on top of her. I have never screamed in horror before and often wondered if I was capable of it. Now I know I am. I could not stop screaming. I watched as Tilly tried desperately to escape the dog’s jaws and I thought to myself, “He's going to kill her. She’s going to die. She’s going to die right in front of me and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

The woman was frozen in shock just as I was. But my screams galvanized the husband who came tearing down the path past me, threw himself forward, almost Superman-like, arms extended in front of him, and landed on his dog, pinning it and prising his jaws apart to release the petrified, shrieking Tilly. He remained pinning his dog to the ground as I scooped Tilly into my arms, trying desperately to determine if she was seriously injured and thinking, why does this have to happen on a holiday when I have no clue where to take her for emergency care?

Frantic to get away from the dog that was still securely pinned beneath its owner, I began to make a hasty retreat but the dog owners shouted after me to come back. I was so dazed and upset that I obeyed. The man stayed on the ground atop the dog who was lying still, not trying to escape, while the wife came to me. Tilly flinched and screamed again as the woman gently put her hands on her, but I held her still as the woman proceeded to examine her minutely for any sign of trauma. Not so much as a drop of blood. It was at least a minute or more before the woman and I were both convinced that, at least physically, Tilly seemed to have escaped harm. I was shaking more violently than Tilly, who clearly felt safe now, clutched in my arms. Both husband and wife were understandably concerned and tried to tell me they’d never seen their young dog behave so. I believed them. They were quite distressed and worried about us.

We bid a tremulous “au revoir” and I headed back to my car, about a 25-minute walk, with Tilly clutched tightly in my arms. After about 10 minutes, I realized I might do more harm coddling her so I put her down on the path. After a moment, she shook herself and headed off several feet ahead of me, which I took to be a very good sign.

I broke my rule of not letting Tilly sit in my lap in the driver’s seat, unable to relinquish her. I drove to my friend Innis’s house, praying she’d be home, as I didn’t think I could bear driving home with no one to talk to in English and only the incessant pull of work tugging at me. I knew I couldn’t face working anymore that afternoon.

Violence is a frightening thing to encounter, whether it’s a thwarted attack like this or something far, far greater. It’s a good thing to remember those who risked their lives for our freedom, and also those who soldier alongside us in our daily lives, who just give us happiness day in and day out. I know Thanksgiving is two weeks away but it helps to remember that we should give thanks every day for our blessings, for our near misses, for the creatures great and small who bring joy into our lives, with their unconditional love,  their unilateral support, their constant presence.

I’ll say a prayer tonight for the veterans and those who have died in all wars, and an especial prayer of thanks that the little creature who gives a soul to my house is alive and well.

God bless.

Remembering Fallen Friends

   A number of years ago when I was working in downtown Manhattan, a co-worker offered to give me a ride in his helicopter. I met him that Saturday morning at Linden Airport in northern New Jersey.
   "There are no doors on this thing?" I asked, as I struggled to secure the seatbelt.
   Richie gave me a wicked smile. "Let me know if it gets too much for you," he taunted. I'd have to fall out, I decided, before I would scream and at that point he probably wouldn't hear me anyway.
   We flew over lower Manhattan and he banked hard as we went around the World Trade Center. Naturally, he flew so that the right side, where I was sitting, was facing the ground oh, so far away. Gulp. But I managed to utter not so much as a yelp. After a few minutes, I even relaxed. It was beautiful.
   Shortly afterward, Richie Cudina left Chapdelaine Corporate Securities for Garban. Later, I heard he'd gotten engaged and by all reports he'd never been happier. I was glad because he was such a nice guy. I lost track of him after that but never forgot that helicopter ride. Thinking of it always made me smile. I didn't know that Richie subsequently moved to Cantor Fitzgerald.
   In 2001, my boss, also a nice guy, left my company and later joined The Hartford up in Connecticut. I went with him. My first day there was September 4, 2001. A week later, Richie and more than three dozen other people I knew were dead. 
   I managed to last five years at The Hartford but my dissatisfaction with being in Connecticut inexorably grew. The joy of working with my boss became the only good thing I could point to, it seemed, and even that was no longer enough to make me want to get out of bed in the morning. I had to make a change.
   Not one for subtlety, I quit my job, sold my house and most of my belongings, and put the rest in storage. I would take a year off and bum around Europe, I decided, and try to get my priorities fixed in a better fashion. Three weeks before I left, a woman considerately crashed into the rear of my 1987 BMW, effectively totaling it. As I looked at the settlement check, far more than I would have gotten had I sold or donated it, I felt it was a sign I was doing the right thing.
   One year turned to three and I found myself buying a house in France. Life is radically different--I live in a teensy two-bedroom, one bath house with a makeshift kitchen and a postage stamp-sized garden out in the rural countryside of central France. As a newly established freelance writer/editor, money is much tighter than it was back when I was working at Chapdelaine. And, yet, I've never been happier or more grateful.
   So, yesterday, I found myself thinking back to all those friends, co-workers and neighbors I'd known who had died 10 years earlier and I offered them up a prayer of affection and thanks--thanks for having touched my life in some way and also for reminding me how short life is and how precious, how important it is to stop wasting days toiling unhappily as I had been and to move forward.
   Thanks, Richie, for showing me how much better it is to get a grip on my fears and enjoy the ride instead of closing my eyes and wishing it was over. God bless you all.

Boulangerie Bread Baked by Me!

Someone explain to me why, here in France, surrounded by myriad wonderful boulangeries, I've taken to baking my own bread?

It started when Anthony, one of my clients, asked me to write yet another set of cooking articles for him. One was on artisanal breadmaking. I mean, what better place to be to understand about the advantages of artisanal breadmaking than France, right?

I Can Can, Can You?

Canning is always something I relish having done (no pun intended) but rarely look forward to at the time it needs doing.

For the uninitiated, potting up preserves, relishes, sauces, pie fillings and the like means a delicate dance between boiling/preparing the food itself, while simultaneously sterilizing the jars and lids — separately, of course, I mean, why make it easier, right? — and boiling the water in the canner so it's ready to pop the jars in, as well as orchestrating the transfer of the product to the jars with minimum mess and contamination, then placing the jars on a rack in the canner with sufficient boiling water to submerge the jars at least an inch so you can boil them 20 minutes or so before carefully extracting them, all the while praying that the seal is intact; otherwise you're relegated to dozens of jars taking up precious freezer space ...