May 8th is VE Day here in
Europe, marking the day of Germany’s unconditional surrender in WWII, in 1945.
It’s a national holiday here in France and what I find most touching is that
villages across the nation celebrate those soldiers who gave their lives in the
wars.
Hire Me on oDesk
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Too Chicken to Blog?
A friend of mine just woke me up to the fact that my blog has done yet another Rip Van Winkle of late.
Work, admittedly, has been gratifyingly busy, with several books, articles and short stories to edit, not to mention the articles I ghostwrite for various websites, to the point where my own book has also gone back into its regularly scheduled hibernation.
Work, admittedly, has been gratifyingly busy, with several books, articles and short stories to edit, not to mention the articles I ghostwrite for various websites, to the point where my own book has also gone back into its regularly scheduled hibernation.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A New Look at Age
My friend and I are planning a mid-January, five- to six-week trip down to southernmost Portugal with the two dogs, Finlay and Tilly. (Finlay is Tilly’s brother.) We thought it would be nice to travel south, trading in temps of at or below freezing to ones more, well, if not summer-like, at least spring-like.
It’s not easy to find places that take dogs, at least outside France. When she was researching places and sending out inquiry e-mails, Innis found one good possibility down in the Algarve, about 16 hours drive from where we are in the Loire-et-Indre region.
Innis told me she’d written to reassure the owner that we were just two middle-aged women with small dogs. I read that and I immediately bristled. Middle-aged? I’m not middle-aged! I’m…oh, wait. GULP. I’m 50. Well, okay, I’m 50 but I’m not fifty! And 50 is like the new 30, right?
Or maybe it just looks like 30 because I can’t seem to put my hands on those damned reading glasses I keep misplacing…
Saturday, October 23, 2010
No Shortage of Spiders
Wow, I have some serious de-cobwebbing to do here! It's been three months since I've had time to post.
I'm no stranger to de-cobwebbing as anyone who lives in rural France well knows. Spiderwebs breed with lightning speed and I'm in danger of joining my compatriots in shrugging them off with the rationale that they're keeping the other bugs at bay. (France actually sells brooms specifically designed for spiderwebs, lest you think I exaggerate. And they're impressively efficacious!)
The cold weather in particular has spiders coming inside for warmth and not all can be ignored. Some are ethereal-looking and keep to themselves at ceiling height but others are just plain scary and prefer the floor. Invariably it's those, roughly the size of Delaware, which find their way into my bedroom, camouflaging themselves on the Oriental-style rug or blending in atop the dark, oak beams. Failing that, they surprise me first thing in the morning against the contrast of the white kitchen sink as I make my way downstairs to innocently set an empty water glass inside, causing me to shriek and potentially shatter the glass on the tile floor instead. (I'm getting rather tired of sweeping up glass first thing in the morning.)
But it's silly to talk of spiders when there are so many other more pressing dangers now. Take, for instance, the gas shortages. France has been protesting mightily the recent austerity measures in raising its full retirement age from 65 to 67 to mirror other countries offsetting the dwindling work force versus the growing population of soon-to-be retirees. Regardless of inconvenience, I have to admire the French for their willingness to stand up as virtually one to be heard.
Still, it was disconcerting enough to see petrol stations sans diesel (gazoil, as it's called here). It made me glad I was driving a car with standard unleaded requirements. (Many French drive diesel cars because France makes its diesel prices attractive. I suspect all the farm equipment in this agricultural nation runs on diesel, although I have yet to see anyone point out the shortage effects on farmers, despite the fact that they're still harvesting their sunflowers and corn around here.) I was up in the city of Tours a few days ago and what we thought at first were traffic jams--unusual in and of themselves--were actually queues to gas/petrol stations. Then we saw empty stations with posted prices of 00000 which really gave us pause.
At one point as many as one in three stations were reported as completely dry and of course Sarkozy is implementing police and military forces to break open the strikers holding the fuel depots closed. I got as far as throwing half a dozen 5-litre plastic jugs that once held kerosene/paraffin into the back of my car but have yet to actually fill them with petrol. However, as the departure date of my parents looms ever closer (1st November), I fear the likelihood that even if their flight to the USA isn't cancelled and even if I manage to get them up to Paris for it, I won't have enough fuel for the ride home. It's a sobering thought indeed. But we have a few days yet to see whether the strikes will dwindle now that the Senate has passed the bill.
Makes those spiders seem a relatively minor inconvenience to contend with.
I'm no stranger to de-cobwebbing as anyone who lives in rural France well knows. Spiderwebs breed with lightning speed and I'm in danger of joining my compatriots in shrugging them off with the rationale that they're keeping the other bugs at bay. (France actually sells brooms specifically designed for spiderwebs, lest you think I exaggerate. And they're impressively efficacious!)
The cold weather in particular has spiders coming inside for warmth and not all can be ignored. Some are ethereal-looking and keep to themselves at ceiling height but others are just plain scary and prefer the floor. Invariably it's those, roughly the size of Delaware, which find their way into my bedroom, camouflaging themselves on the Oriental-style rug or blending in atop the dark, oak beams. Failing that, they surprise me first thing in the morning against the contrast of the white kitchen sink as I make my way downstairs to innocently set an empty water glass inside, causing me to shriek and potentially shatter the glass on the tile floor instead. (I'm getting rather tired of sweeping up glass first thing in the morning.)
But it's silly to talk of spiders when there are so many other more pressing dangers now. Take, for instance, the gas shortages. France has been protesting mightily the recent austerity measures in raising its full retirement age from 65 to 67 to mirror other countries offsetting the dwindling work force versus the growing population of soon-to-be retirees. Regardless of inconvenience, I have to admire the French for their willingness to stand up as virtually one to be heard.
Still, it was disconcerting enough to see petrol stations sans diesel (gazoil, as it's called here). It made me glad I was driving a car with standard unleaded requirements. (Many French drive diesel cars because France makes its diesel prices attractive. I suspect all the farm equipment in this agricultural nation runs on diesel, although I have yet to see anyone point out the shortage effects on farmers, despite the fact that they're still harvesting their sunflowers and corn around here.) I was up in the city of Tours a few days ago and what we thought at first were traffic jams--unusual in and of themselves--were actually queues to gas/petrol stations. Then we saw empty stations with posted prices of 00000 which really gave us pause.
At one point as many as one in three stations were reported as completely dry and of course Sarkozy is implementing police and military forces to break open the strikers holding the fuel depots closed. I got as far as throwing half a dozen 5-litre plastic jugs that once held kerosene/paraffin into the back of my car but have yet to actually fill them with petrol. However, as the departure date of my parents looms ever closer (1st November), I fear the likelihood that even if their flight to the USA isn't cancelled and even if I manage to get them up to Paris for it, I won't have enough fuel for the ride home. It's a sobering thought indeed. But we have a few days yet to see whether the strikes will dwindle now that the Senate has passed the bill.
Makes those spiders seem a relatively minor inconvenience to contend with.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Canine Challenges
Mid-June is a really lovely season to be in France--fiery poppies fill the fields; the cherry trees droop with the weight of their fruit; the weekly markets groan beneath the volume of so much fresh produce, not to mention myriad cheeses, breads and meats; and sailboats dot the lakes everywhere you look.
Just over two weeks ago, Tilly and I set off for Lake Annecy in the French Alps, along with her brother, Finlay, and my friend Innis. Here we’ve spent two weeks in Veyrier-du-lac in a lakeside house taking care of two other Coton du Tulear dogs, Sky and Chip, for whom I’ve housesat before.
The excitement began before we’d even left, when we realized to our dismay that Tilly appeared to be entering her first season, her first heat cycle. Not only is Finlay, her brother, not yet neutered but neither is Chip, the other male dog we’d be living with for 16 days. Not to mention that our dogs have the backseat to themselves during these long drives!
The vet shook her head ruefully. No, there was nothing to do but keep them separated or risk Tilly, who’s too young to get safely pregnant anyway, getting ‘caught’ by one of them. And since Finlay is her brother, the genetic complications only make things riskier. The vet assured us, were it to happen, that if my sweet, innocent Tilly turns out to be Tilly the Tramp in disguise, it would be soon enough when we return that we could give her the canine equivalent of the morning-after abortion pill, a series of two injections, each 24 hours apart, with, she assured us, no side effects. Despite my misgivings, we set the appointment for the day after we would return.
Two rather stressful weeks have passed with Tilly donned in little black elastic sanitary pants. Chip has hounded her every possible chance, with us shooing him away constantly, and Tilly showed no interest in rejecting his amorous advances—that is, until the one brief moment our vigilance wavered and he caught her under the table, hidden beneath the tablecloth. Tilly shrieked and squealed like a piglet as we shot up out of our chairs and raced to attempt a rescue. Alas, too late. Any hesitation Innis and I have had about neutering our dogs and giving Tilly the shots vanished in that moment.
We’ve spent an exhausting few days now trying to isolate them, each of us taking a pair of dogs and walking in opposite directions because Chip’s been single-minded in his pursuit of his Juliet. But things are quieting down now, just in time for the next leg of our road trip, a leisurely two-day jaunt into Italy, where we’ll spend five days with new friends (former housesit clients) relaxing and exploring. I suspect that, although at this writing they’re completely without bath and toilet facilities due to a renovation project, that will prove far less vexing than frantic, barking, randy dogs. Time will tell.
The excitement began before we’d even left, when we realized to our dismay that Tilly appeared to be entering her first season, her first heat cycle. Not only is Finlay, her brother, not yet neutered but neither is Chip, the other male dog we’d be living with for 16 days. Not to mention that our dogs have the backseat to themselves during these long drives!
The vet shook her head ruefully. No, there was nothing to do but keep them separated or risk Tilly, who’s too young to get safely pregnant anyway, getting ‘caught’ by one of them. And since Finlay is her brother, the genetic complications only make things riskier. The vet assured us, were it to happen, that if my sweet, innocent Tilly turns out to be Tilly the Tramp in disguise, it would be soon enough when we return that we could give her the canine equivalent of the morning-after abortion pill, a series of two injections, each 24 hours apart, with, she assured us, no side effects. Despite my misgivings, we set the appointment for the day after we would return.
Two rather stressful weeks have passed with Tilly donned in little black elastic sanitary pants. Chip has hounded her every possible chance, with us shooing him away constantly, and Tilly showed no interest in rejecting his amorous advances—that is, until the one brief moment our vigilance wavered and he caught her under the table, hidden beneath the tablecloth. Tilly shrieked and squealed like a piglet as we shot up out of our chairs and raced to attempt a rescue. Alas, too late. Any hesitation Innis and I have had about neutering our dogs and giving Tilly the shots vanished in that moment.
We’ve spent an exhausting few days now trying to isolate them, each of us taking a pair of dogs and walking in opposite directions because Chip’s been single-minded in his pursuit of his Juliet. But things are quieting down now, just in time for the next leg of our road trip, a leisurely two-day jaunt into Italy, where we’ll spend five days with new friends (former housesit clients) relaxing and exploring. I suspect that, although at this writing they’re completely without bath and toilet facilities due to a renovation project, that will prove far less vexing than frantic, barking, randy dogs. Time will tell.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Meriting a Peugeot
When I left the USA in October 2006, despite the (then) certainty of returning in a year--or maybe because of it--I got rid of a boatload of beloved items, particularly kitchen equipment and gadgets. Friends here are no doubt short of patience when I embark on one of my almost daily reminiscences--oh, man, I can't BELIEVE I got rid of ___! (a myriad number of items can fill the blanks; feel free to suggest as you see fit). I've moaned about citrus pressers, cake pans, baking sheets and cooling racks, gadgets and knives, strainers, silicone liners, dishes, glasses, cake decorating equipment, crystal, even my pepper grinder. (Well, at least I know where that ended up--I gave that to my mother and I'm delighted she's using it.)
My friend Innis is often gifting me things, no doubt because she, too, is fed up with listening to me reminisce (all right, moan) and cry impoverished author--all right, ALL RIGHT! WOULD-be author. She's given me a fabulous cheese grater--that she still lusts after--and a great ceramic tart pan that I've made numerous quiches in, and most recently she surprised me with a pepper grinder. She admitted she was tempted by a cheaper version but ended up splurging on the upscale option...no doubt because she eats here fairly often and figured she'd benefit from it, too.
I opened this, my birthday gift, to reveal a really lovely Lucite pepper grinder just hungering to be filled with the peppercorns which I, ever an optimist, had bought without any way of grinding.
"Wow, a Peugeot! I had no idea they even made pepper grinders!" She admitted she almost hadn't bought it for me.
"Gosh, this is, like...a better make than my car!" She gave me a sidelong glance.
"I've seen your car. Please tell me you'll take better care of this."
"Hey, this is France," I retorted. "And my car is secondhand from Paris. A car isn't a car unless it looks like a post-adolescent acne sufferer in desperate need of dermabrasion." (Okay, admittedly, post-adolescent acne sufferers don't sport scrapes the length of their faces, just dimples. My car has both.)
Having weathered a long winter followed by a spring toting gardening and seedling purchases for me as well as other folks, my car's in desperate need of rehab. It's my goal to get it washed, waxed, buffed and gleaming, right down to the dimples, before the end of May because that's when Innis and I leave, our sibling dogs in tow, for a month, stopping on Lake Annecy in the French Alps, then Cessole in Northern Italy, and finally Provence before returning home at the end of June.
If my friend climbs into my car to drive to Annecy in the state it's in now, she might think twice before buying me another Peugeot anything.
My friend Innis is often gifting me things, no doubt because she, too, is fed up with listening to me reminisce (all right, moan) and cry impoverished author--all right, ALL RIGHT! WOULD-be author. She's given me a fabulous cheese grater--that she still lusts after--and a great ceramic tart pan that I've made numerous quiches in, and most recently she surprised me with a pepper grinder. She admitted she was tempted by a cheaper version but ended up splurging on the upscale option...no doubt because she eats here fairly often and figured she'd benefit from it, too.
I opened this, my birthday gift, to reveal a really lovely Lucite pepper grinder just hungering to be filled with the peppercorns which I, ever an optimist, had bought without any way of grinding.
"Wow, a Peugeot! I had no idea they even made pepper grinders!" She admitted she almost hadn't bought it for me.
"Gosh, this is, like...a better make than my car!" She gave me a sidelong glance.
"I've seen your car. Please tell me you'll take better care of this."
"Hey, this is France," I retorted. "And my car is secondhand from Paris. A car isn't a car unless it looks like a post-adolescent acne sufferer in desperate need of dermabrasion." (Okay, admittedly, post-adolescent acne sufferers don't sport scrapes the length of their faces, just dimples. My car has both.)
Having weathered a long winter followed by a spring toting gardening and seedling purchases for me as well as other folks, my car's in desperate need of rehab. It's my goal to get it washed, waxed, buffed and gleaming, right down to the dimples, before the end of May because that's when Innis and I leave, our sibling dogs in tow, for a month, stopping on Lake Annecy in the French Alps, then Cessole in Northern Italy, and finally Provence before returning home at the end of June.
If my friend climbs into my car to drive to Annecy in the state it's in now, she might think twice before buying me another Peugeot anything.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)