Musee des Beaux Arts

I spent the morning in the art museum.  It's about 30 steps away from the Place Gambetta at the head of my street.  I'd already been on the ground floor, but the upstairs rooms weren't open the first time I visited.  The museum isn't much to look at from the outside, so I was suitably impressed at its size and scope once I climbed the steps to the upper floors. I know I will sound like a rube, but you know what?  I don't care. I hope I never lose my capacity to be delighted by art.

The "religious" room.

I am suitably grateful to the Church for its patronage of the arts all those centuries ago.  Without its support, we would certainly be poorer, both in music and the visual arts.  Having said that, if I never see one more picture of a saint getting scourged or someone getting bloodied, I will not miss it.  I don't even mind the portraits of the rich, because I love to see the details of the clothing of the day.  

Mostly what I realized when I stood there today is just how ignorant I am about art,  those who created it in the past, and those who are creating it today.  I guess I will bump it up on the list of things to learn about before I die.  I am tired of not knowing what I am viewing or why it was important enough to buy and hang in a museum.  I understand that it is not always about beauty or technical skill, but those are important factors.  It also can't simply be about a painting's age. 

Love the sky.

Thunk!  The painting on the top to the left of the large canvas.

They have a room full of Dutch painters' work that I just loved.  I loved the way they painted the sky.So much of the painting is devoted to the sky.  And there was one painting in particular--La Ferme dans le Bois--The Farm in the Woods---I now understand why someone would want to steal a painting.  Something inside my chest simply went "thunk" when I saw it.  I didn't get a very good photo of it.

They have a small collection of clocks and a room full of dishes.  It is a marvel that these fragile pieces have lasted for hundreds of years.  I wonder about the people who made them, the people who ate from them.  Who were they?  What did they talk about?  What did they dream about?

One of their more ornate clocks--you can't tell but it's green enamel.

I loved that the museum wasn't crowded.  I loved that I could take pictures, as long as I didn't use the flash.  I loved that I could stand as long as I wanted to in front of a painting and drink it in. And I could get as close as I needed to without touching it, of course, to see the details.   I loved that it was free to get in, so I can go back tomorrow.  And guess what?  No gift shop, or at least none that I have found so far.

The Aude, looking west.

After my communion with the created beauty, I came home for lunch. Because it was a spectacular day and I couldn't stand being cooped up in the house, I took myself off for a walk along the river, for some communing with natural beauty. I am amazed by Carcassonne's public spaces and how peaceful and uncrowded they are.  They lack the controlled manicure of Paris' parks. 

 

The grass along the Aude just gets to grow wild.  The river, at least here, flows to the east, which is taking me some time to get used to.  It was a brisk afternoon, and probably the last time I will be able to go out without a jacket. 

I encountered children riding bikes and elderly couples out for an afternoon's constitutional.  People on the benches were reading or having lunch.  Nothing special, just people living their lives.  And isn't that special enough? And over us all, the cite stands watch.

Mediatheque and Jackasses

I took myself off to the library today.  I wanted to return the books I got last week....quite frankly, they were not my cup of tea.  I could never get into the book about the woman who'd just had the baby and wanted to kill it.  She was heralded as a breakthrough writer for daring to voice what other people, i.e. women, only thought but never spoke aloud.  Maybe when my language skills get better. ...

I went looking for a guide to birds.  I want to go the arboretum tomorrow and thought that a field guide to the area birds would be helpful.  I found one for mushrooms, but nothing else.  I even looked later in a couple of bookstores, but have had no success.  I will try the Internet, I guess.  Certainly there are bird-watchers in Carcassonne.

A sign on the garage door across the street from the library. You would think it would not be necessary to post a sign.

I actually need to pay closer attention to the time, and schedules  The library--excuse me-- la mediatheque doesn't open until 10 and I was a little early.  I am still getting used to a more languid pace.  One questionable advantage of having a herd of children living overhead is that one is awakened by 7:00.  So, I was raring to go, bright and early.  I had to wait outside for a couple of minutes, and it was a mite chilly.  But I survived.  A nice local man came by, also early, and we chit-chatted for a bit.

As I was in line to return my books, I asked them for information about the AVF, an organization here in Carcassonne for newcomers of any nationality, even French.  It's a group that meets to share common interests.  The ladies behind the counter did not know what I was talking about, but, voila--the lady behind me in line happened to be a member!! She pulled out her card, gave me the phone number and address.  What a great stroke of luck.  That was the second wonderful thing that happened to me before noon today.  The first was receiving notification that I have had two poems accepted for publication.  No big deal to anyone but me.    So, perhaps I should go buy a lottery ticket, since the universe seems to be smiling with special fondness on me today. 

From my desk at the library.

I sat in the calm of the library and wrote for a couple of hours.  It was time well spent.  I don't have the distractions there that I seem to have here in my apartment. But once my hind end started to rebel, I figured it was time to stretch my legs.  I headed off in the direction of the train station.  I wanted to get information about ouigo, the discounted TGV program and to learn about the 1 Euro fare from Carcassonne to Quillen, a little town south of here. As I left, a man approached me and asked in flawless French, if I knew where the mediatheque was.  I was able to answer in flawless French.  Made my day!!!!  People have been stopping me in the past couple of days to ask directions.  I must have this air about me that makes me look like I know where I am going and what I am doing.  (It's all an illusion)  Actually, I seem to have an approachable face, and most of the time, I can help.

La mediatheque est ici!

 As I came to an intersection, I heard the familiar twang of American being spoken.  Mom, Dad and three kids...who sounded suspiciously like the herd upstairs.  The woman was carping, asking, "Isn't anything in this town open?"  I trudged along behind them and their children, just listening.  Is it eavesdropping when the conversation you are hearing is really loud?  Finally, after the third comment about the "boolangeree" being closed, I offered, in my own American twang, that there would be something open at the Place Carnot, just up the street.  I asked where they were from, and was told "We live in France, but not in Carcassonne."  I told them I understood, but where in the States were they from?  Did they think I couldn't tell they were American?  Their reply was "South Carolina."  

They never thanked me for the information.  They never acknowledged a fellow traveler, they never asked where I was from.  I turned the corner, down toward the post office and muttered, "Assholes."  I hope they never did find the "boolangeree."  And they wonder why it is that Americans leave a bad impression.  I really do think they are the people who are renting the upstairs apartment.  

If you don't want to be treated as a jackass, don't act like one.

Le Sac Bleu

This will be short and sweet.  I am having a wonderful, normal day here in the Bastide.  I went to the market this morning and bought vegetables for soup.  I stopped in at the butcher shop on the way back to the apartment.  They are starting to recognize me and they know I am an English speaker.  But I have asked them to help me, because I came to Carcassonne to learn to speak French. They are all delighted to be my teachers.  They correct the tenses of my verbs, plug in the right word when my vocabulary fails and as long as they are not super busy (and they weren't at the time I stopped in), take the time and patience to wait as I struggle to form the sentences.  Oh and did I mention that they have the most wonderful meat!! Gorgeous rabbit, lamb, chicken.  And they had Pommes Dauphinoise--and were thrilled when I told them I would like to try them.  Just a few--je suis seule, after all.

My success story of the day--I finally found a purse.  And the most delightful part of the experience apart from its brilliant color--it was only 15 Euros.  On sale. because it was last season's....they'll never know that in Brookings!  And the one I was looking at immediately before seeing this one (in a different boutique) was a mere 470 Euros....but it was Italian.  The French ones were only 250 Euros.....

It did cool down considerably, but not enough to make me close my windows.  Perhaps I will do so tonight. I think that I will have to start wearing my coat when I go out now.  We went from 78 degrees down to the low 60's.  Not as bad as Lake Tahoe, I gather. It is supposed to be a beautiful day on Thursday.  That will be a day for the jaunt to the arboretum. In the meantime I am going to see if I can find a field guide to the plants and birds.  Maybe the library will have something.  It would be nice to know what I am seeing while I am there.

I am loving the French "cultural" channel, arte.....last night there was an homage to Fellini. I watched La Strada, with Anthony Quinn.  What a great film, even if it was a little dark.  It was a little odd seeing an Italian film dubbed in French.  But I "got" maybe 85% of all the dialogue.  It was followed by La Dolce Vita, but it was on too late for me to stay up and watch.  Another time, perhaps.  Tonight they are doing a documentary about "black money"  Banker, Banker, Bankster.......check it out.

http://www.arte.tv/fr

The Number One Bus

Today was a day for taking the bus.  I have always been tied to a car, and bus schedules have always been a mystery to me. But I wanted to see where this #1 bus went. I stopped in the office and picked up a line schedule.  I learned that it's just a guide-there are usually more stops than are on the schedule, and sometimes the map is not necessarily what the buses are doing today.

I want to go to the arboretum and see some of the surrounding countryside.   I took the bus that goes to the southeast--toward a lake that seems to be quite popular with residents of the area.  The stop for the arboretum is along this route.

The route took me out into the suburbs.  The Carcassonnais equivalent of the big box stores are depressingly similar to the ones in the United States. Everyone likes a bargain and families can save money buying in bulk.  I passed these by on the way out of town.  

The countryside is beautiful in spots.  There has obviously been a building boom in the outskirts, with housing developments in various stages of completion just accessible from the autoroutes.  What I was unprepared for are the walls...there are walls around most of the housing developments.  I guess the residents don't want anyone looking in.  The roads are narrow and pretty twisty; I marveled at the skill of the bus driver.  

He reached the end point and turned back to town. I got off at the St. George market stop and bought a few things-some cereal that I hadn't been able to find in town, as well as some yogurt.  The Geant, at which you can get a TV, cereal and socks, and a laptop, was doing a brisk business.  There were lots of cars in the parking lot, mostly from the suburbs.  

St George market bus stop.

I went back out to catch the #1 bus back into town.  That's where my real adventure began. Apparently today, the bus wasn't going to follow the prescribed route. I figured I would ride it to the turn around point to the northwest of the city and then, on its way back in, get off at my stop, Le Dome. Not today. The bus came to a stop in the middle of an industrial park and the driver turned to me and said, "C'est le terminus."  Okey dokey-now what?

I hoped I was at the correct bus stop

I showed him the schedule I'd been following and told him that I needed the return bus.  He pointed me in the vague direction across the street and around the corner.  "Vingt minutes." 20 minutes. No problem. Maybe he was going off duty for lunch.  It was about that time.  

Industrial park

So, out in the middle of nowhere, I made my way across the road and did find the bus shelter.  The weather was nice, there was a bench to sit on, and only vague and distant stirrings of my bladder gave me the slightest of worries.  It was a beautiful day, I had no timetable to obey, I may as well enjoy the out of doors.

A woman came by, looking for the supermarket.  As it so happened, I could point her in the right direction.  I know Leader Price--I learned it in Paris all those years ago and had just seen one as I was "thrown off" the bus.  We struck up a conversation.  She is Armenian and newly arrived in Carcassonne--she's been here two months. She, too, is trying to learn French. How wonderful!  She and I could understand one another's French, even as both of us struggle to understand French people's French!  We were both using our fledgling skills and we could actually carry on a conversation and communicate. It was so great, for both of us.  She told me that she was alone.  I believe in my heart of hearts that I was supposed to be there today--we were supposed to cross paths. It gave me a lift of my spirits and I could tell she was lighter of heart as well.  She is not alone, after all.

 

She left to find the supermarket. I had only to wait a few more minutes before my bus arrived and I was headed back into the city once more.  I see no advantage for me to take the bus out there to shop. I can find everything I need at little markets here in the Bastide.  If you are shopping for a family, I suppose it makes good money sense to go there, but for me, I will stick to the butcher shop up the street and the boulangerie around the corner.  

I now know where to buy a car, where to find granite counter tops, the location of a McDonald's, a discount shoe warehouse and where to get replacement windows.  You never know when that kind of information will come in handy.  I am going back on the bus tomorrow-out to the arboretum, weather permitting.  I don't know how much longer this glorious weather will hold.  I will pack a picnic and my sketch book and see where the trail takes me.

Church

We "fell back" here last night, so now there are only 8 hours and 5 hours time difference between here and the west and east coasts...until the US "falls back" next weekend.  I guess that means it is going to get dark earlier tonight.

Today is spectacular, again--sunny, warm, no humidity, shirtsleeve weather.  How wonderful for late autumn.  I don't know if it's usual weather for here, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.  I have been outside enjoying it most of the morning and will return once I get this post finished.

A beautiful day in my Carcassonne neighborhood.

I found the Protestant church here.  It's a very short walk from the apartment and took me in a direction I haven't yet really explored, so I set off early.  I got there in plenty of time for the service, and had a chance to chat with some of the parishioners.  What a charming little building! It is home to a very small, very informal congregation .  The hymnals are as worn as the seats.  I was greeted warmly by people who speak little to no English, which was great for me.  I had to speak French.  The hour that I spent there this morning might have done more to improve my language skills than just about anything else I have done thus far.

The guy in the back with the beard led the service.  Notice the absence of cushions! 

I found that I had a hard time filtering out the background noise-the creaking of the wooden seats, the wiggling of the children behind me, late entrants' footfalls on the stone floors all made it harder to hear the speaker.  And unlike some speakers I have listened to, I actually WANTED to hear what this man was saying. It was much better once everyone settled in.  There were probably 18 people in the church for the service.  Once the woman who seemed to be in charge found out that I was from the US and spoke English, she introduced me to a Swedish woman who spoke some English.  Then she brought over a woman from the UK, Linda, who lives 15k north of Carcassonne and is a regular attendee. She sat with me and gave me some pointers about getting absorbed into Carcassonnaise life.  

Impressive, but not used.  The guy led the service from down on the floor, with the rest of us.

There was lots of singing--all a capella.  They have a Yamaha keyboard, but nobody to play it. The good thing about singing with no accompaniment is that people sing in a key that's comfortable for them.  That's not a bad thing. I was able to fully participate during the singing part. Even though the hymns were vaguely familiar, I was able to read both the French words and the tune, so I fit right in with everyone else.  

White marble altar table, and three candles, obviously used from one week to the next.

 I liked the service. The people were friendly without being overbearing.  It's a beautiful spot to meditate and think about my purpose in life.  This parish is socially conscious, and is heavily involved in feeding the hungry. It obviously does not spend money on unnecessary frills for the building, but tries to take care of what it has.  I will go back next Sunday.

I  took the long way home.  Stopped at a brasserie and treated myself to a glass of white wine and some lunch-cote de porc dijonnais. (pork chop with dijon mustard sauce)   The majority of the people there were locals, and seemed to know one another and the wait staff.  The dog came in, too, for lunch.  I could sit as long as I wanted to and write.  Nobody pushes you to move on so they can "turn their tables."  It's a great way to spend a Sunday.  It's a great way to spend any day.

Park on the way home

Always good to know where these are located.

I suppose that others may have already mastered the city by this time.  But the luxury of six month's time is allowing me to discover it at my own pace.
When I get tired, I come home.

A little brasserie with a great living space above it around the corner from my house

I can see the flag of the dome from my apartment window

Some of the old stone walls from cities gone by are still visible.

A little autumn color is showing.

Concert at St Vincent's

Went to the market earlier today and the guys with the big paella pan were there.  I have heard stories about such big pans, but never expected to see one in use.  Yummmmmmmm.

Yes, the vendor really was THAT animated.

I have plenty of left-overs, so I limited my purchases to some lettuce and fresh tomatoes.  I don't plan on cooking another pot of anything before next market day, this coming Tuesday.  I did see some wonderful chrysanthemums, though.  I remember these from a long time ago--they're yellow and one bloom is big enough for a corsage.  I associate them with football homecoming, but have no idea why.  Here chrysanthemums are going on the tombs in the cemeteries next week for Toussaints.....All Saints Day.

I went to the concert at St. Vincent's today at 4:00.  It was a combined choir concert with organ pieces.  I actually liked the organ part of the program better than the choir portion.  I really did try to just relax and enjoy the concert, but was not entirely successful.  Too many years behind the folder, I guess.  The program was primarily Schutz, Mendelssohn and Handel. 

The place did fill up with a nice turnout for the concert.

In those acoustics, all the consonants, beginning, ending and in the middle, got lost. Maybe that is unavoidable.  These two choirs were combined--one was from Germany and their director was the director for this concert.  Reinhard Seeliger is his name.  It's hard for a choir to sing under a director other than the one they're used to, so the Choer de Saint Louis, the local team, so to speak, was at a disadvantage.  I tried to find some good things as I was writing my comments--and I don't know why I have to do that, either.  I always think I might refer to those programs some time when choosing music for my own choirs.  

Anyhow, they did Mendelssohn's Singet dem Herren ein neues Lied (Sing to the Lord a New Song).  I noted beneath it,  "But learn it first."  I am probably going straight to hell for that.  Fortunately nobody sitting close to me could read English or my handwriting.

They closed with selections from the Messiah.  Don't try to B.S. me on that piece.  I could sing it, and most all parts, if I were in a coma.  You don't learn a piece from Ed Polochick and ever forget it!!!!The choir went up to the organ loft (in the back of the church) to sing these pieces, which would help with keeping the organ and the choir together.  It was only partly successful.  I liked the director's tempos....they were sprightly.  

They closed with the Hallelujah Chorus.  Apparently, in France, it is NOT the tradition to stand for this piece. Who knew?  I was already up, and kept waiting for others to stand. I was the only one in the entire audience of maybe 150-200 people who was standing.   When I realized that I was the only one on my feet, I experienced just a moment's hesitation.  Then I thought, "Screw it, I am going to do this anyway."  It is my tradition and I do try to respect the customs of the place I am visiting,  but I was taught this was a way to honor Handel, his genius and the singers who are singing it. So I stood.  All. Alone. For. The. Whole.Piece.  After a while, I was just lost in the music and didn't give a rip what anyone thought. Oh yes, they were all facing forward, and I was facing backward. So it was kind of hard to avoid eye contact.

After the Hallelujah Chorus--NOW they stand.

After the concert, a whole bunch of people came up to me....it's not like I had been bloody invisible....They were really nice about my tradition. They knew about it, but in France, they don't observe it.  Maybe I was wrong,  but I wasn't trying to be disrespectful.  Several people could see that I was a singer---I was mouthing the words, but not, I swear on the Messiah score, singing along.  One lady wants me to come and join the choir that is local, but I don't know.  I may want to check out a few other ones before I commit.  And I don't want to get locked into having to attend a Catholic church here.  

The organ gleamed.

It was an enjoyable concert, especially the organ pieces.  I wrote, "There must be a room in heaven that sounds like this," under a piece by Pable Bruna---Tiento des Tiples....and Handel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba was a delight.  I would like to make an entrance to that music.  Who wouldn't?

On the way home, I stopped in the ticket office for the bus system and bought a carnet..10 tickets for 8 Euros.  Because I had no idea what I wanted, there was one great jolly guy who elbowed his colleague, nodded at me and started to laugh.  Finally I said, I want to ride the Number 1 Bus and see where it goes.  I told him that I didn't know where I wanted to go.  But I would go explore.  We all laughed and whooped and hollered.  Yes, it was at my expense, but I frankly don't see it that way.  I got what I came for, I made two wonderful allies.  They won't soon forget me and they were falling over themselves to be helpful to an old broad.  Who actually had the last laugh?

Monday, I hop the bus for my exploration....

34 Rue du Pont Vieux Residents

I was up at dawn this morning.  Although that might sound impressive, it's really not, because it doesn't get light until so late. I was probably up by 7, which is positively slug-a-bed by my previous standards.  It's been a day for housekeeping.  This sized apartment, I can clean no problem. Anything much bigger and I struggle. Stripped the beds, cleaned the bathroom, ran the vacuum and used the carcass of the chicken I bought last weekend to make soup.  Aired out the bedding over the balcony rail and changed the duvet cover, which is easier said than done, believe me.  But now my apartment smells yummy and is clean, to boot.  So when people ask about my "vacation," you can see why I might smile.



This was taken a little after 8 this morning.  Notice that the street lights are still on. 

I met another neighbor as I was returning from taking out the trash and recycling.  Allen, of Allen and Tracy, who live in the apartment directly below me, was coming in at the same time.  They've been here maybe three months already and Allen told me this morning that they have just extended his stay another year...until March 2015. Can you color me jealous?  He and his wife are from Reno, which in relative distances, makes us next-door neighbors.  They retired from the Nevada higher education system and are living the true expat life. They sold their house, gave away or sold all their possessions and came to France with 200 pounds of belongings--2 suitcases a piece.  No car, but they do have a dog.  Originally they wanted to have a home base in Italy, but apparently a steady retirement income is not sufficient for the Italian government, or at least the Italian consulate in LA, to grant them a long term visa. (Apparently the Italians want a big pile of ready cash)  So they decided to make Carcassonne their home base.  The good thing about meeting them is that they've already learned the ropes and can help me with bus routes and discounted train fares.  The bad thing about that is--well, I don't get to have the fun of getting lost. 

As we stood there chatting, Jason, our landlord, passed us on the way out the door to go to the airport to pick up an incoming tenant.  Allen and I were still yakking away when he returned with our new neighbor in tow. She's from New York City--on the southern edge of Central Park in Manhattan.  She claims to be from the US, and may well be a citizen, but her accent gives her away as not a native English speaker.  She also told us that she owns a lodge in Colorado, but wanted something a little different.  Carcassonne in general and 34 rue du Pont Vieux in particular seem like an odd choice for her, but everyone's story is unique. She's here for a year. 

Poor old Jason has a broken nose--the result of splitting wood yesterday. It's a clean break, apparently, but looks pretty painful.  He seems to be taking it in stride, and it didn't stop him from going about his chores today. He stopped in and picked up my sheets and towels to take to the laundry. Apparently an order of nuns runs a laundry service, and for the big and heavy items like these bed linens and towels, it's better to send them out rather than try to do them in the combination washer/dryer here in the apartment.

It feels good to meet some people. Everyone is trying some version of the same dream, I think, so that gives us some common ground.  Although I am perfectly content with my own company, it is nice to  know that there are people around to share coffee with or a glass of wine.  When Bob and Chris return from Paris, we're going out into the country to go sightseeing.  The drawback is that everyone in this building now is an English speaker. That makes an immersion experience more difficult. I don't want to seem standoffish, but I came here to learn to speak French.  I think Allen will be game for practicing, but I can't vouch for the others. I don't want the expat experience; I want the carcassonnaise experience.

About 12 hours later, sunset. 



To Market, to market...

 Last night the smoke alarm decided to begin chirping in the middle of the night.  Why do they never chirp in the middle of the day?  Is there some universal law that regulates the timing of the end of battery life?   A little after 1:30 in the morning I was climbing on the dining room chair to take the smoke detector from its spot in the ceiling and remove the battery to hush that cheerful little noise. I wasn't about to call Jason at that hour of the night--I am not helpless.  I e-mailed him this morning and he will bring a new battery tomorrow.  I offered to get one today if he would simply point me the the right direction. It's not something I am likely to find at the Place Carnot.

Went to the market this morning and my guilty pleasure purchase was a little slice of comte cheese.  What I know about cheese can be contained in one of the holes in a slice of Swiss, but I know comte. Yummy.  The vendor offered me my choice of how long it at been aged, from young to several years old.  I opted for something in the middle, although they were all wonderful.  It was meant to be, as I had breakfasted upon the last morsel of the first piece I bought when I arrived.  I also purchased some vegetables and a head of the most beautiful cauliflower I have ever seen.  The flower vendors are preparing the huge baskets of chrysanthemums that people will put in the cemeteries for All Saints. There's a rhythm here, and I am becoming a part of it.

Today was also a day of doppelganger-ism.  I kept seeing people who look exactly like people I know back in Brookings....Susan Kroker-Griffith and Gordy Myrah, of all people.  And I ran into one man at the market who was a dead ringer for the lost love of my life. Made me go weak in the knees.  Do you think I have stumbled into some sort of parallel universe?

Stopped at the best butcher shop in Carcassonne, which is four or five doors up the street from my apartment.  I always make it my last stop. I purchased the last two chicken thigh/drumstick combinations they had and chatted with the butcher about the new paint job on the exterior.  He grinned when I told him I liked it.  I think he was pleased that someone noticed.  It really does look great.

The rest of the day has been devoted to work.  I am going to shut my computer off for the evening and read.  It wasn't an exciting day, but it was a wonderful day nonetheless.

The boucherie's new paint job. 

Learning French in the Cite

It is stupendously gorgeous here to day. The weather is topic number one of just about every conversation I hear.  It's warm and clear and sunny.  I was up early, and did a load of laundry before heading out for the day's errands.  I figured that as warm as it is, the things would dry in no time if I put the drying rack next to the windows that I have thrown open wide.  There was a teensy little incident with the laundry--something that I have laundered dozens of times bled blue dye....this happened to me once before--in Paris all those years ago. It must have something to do with the temperature settings for whites and/or the hard water here and in Paris. Now I have some undies a color for which there is no name.  Oh well, it's not like anyone will see them.  And since this is getting into dangerously too much information territory, I will change the subject.  Let's just say that I have very clean, very dry but oddly tinted unmentionables.  But not the socks...why didn't the white socks get dyed, too?

I finished up my paperwork requirements at the mediatheque....I am really, really legit now, and my library card is good for two years.  

Then I climbed the hill to the Cite.  It was so gorgeous, I thought that I might be able to get some good photos.  And even though it's vacation time, I figured it couldn't possibly be as crowded as it had been for the festival last Sunday.  I arrived, almost in time to miss the huge bus load of senior citizens. Almost.  I think they were from Spain. 

The towers peek out over the trees

One of the entrances

Safely forbidding?

But they came to shop and I came to climb around on the ramparts. I had my writing and my sketch pads with me.  I had packed a sandwich and a bottle of water, so I was all set. I went inside the first set of walls and made a left turn, before even crossing the drawbridge.  The stony path reminds me of nothing so much as a walk along the beach in Brookings--lots of uneven stones to navigate.  I got myself a little further out of the way and began to climb the steps to the ramparts. 

I haven't yet discovered what the channel is for that runs down the center.   A medieval median strip?

Interesting shape of the door.  See what I mean about the steps and no handrails?

There are no guardrails, no chains to catch you if you fall.  Here, common sense prevails.  If you go up there, you might fall.  And it will be your fault, and there's nobody to sue if that happens.  If you don't want to fall, then don't go up the stairs. How refreshing! It's like the fighters over the weekend.  Nobody's insurance company is going after anyone else's insurance company.  If you don't want to get injured, then DON'T FIGHT.  

Tending the grounds and one of the carriage rides.

The horses have little hats.

I don't know when vertigo became part of my physical symptoms, but it seems to have crept in. I got up to those walkways, but I needed a hand to steady myself.  Part of it might be that my feet are so big and those steps are so small.  Everywhere in the cite I am constantly reminded about how small these people were.  Short, slight, with little feet.  Everything I am not.  I take up more room on those catwalks....But, I was rewarded with spectacular views of the Carcassonne and the surrounding countryside. It is really beautiful country.

From the ramparts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful countryside

One of the vineyards just outside the castle walls.  Can you imagine living in that house?

I took my lunch and my writing to a bench inside the city.  There aren't lots of places to sit except for the chairs provided by the restaurants, but I was lucky enough to snag one in the shade. Before long, I was joined by a couple, obviously retirees, who wanted a little cigarette break. We struck up a conversation. They were from Brussels, are completely retired and are enjoying a leisurely drive through France.  We talked about the weather, of course and how lucky we are to be enjoying this. We talked about work, we talked about the flies--des mouches--which are surprisingly annoying. We talked about learning another language, and they helped me with my French and were delighted to get to practice their English. They are both retired teachers-she of French and he of history.  We had a delightful conversation--I was able to make myself understood, they were eager to help me and to practice their own language skills. It really made my day! They both assured me that I already spoke pretty well and that in six months' time, it would be coming naturally to me. My reply was--De votre bouche a l'oreille de Dieu. Your mouth to God's ear.  I don't even know if that's the right way to say that in French, but they got it. And we all had a good laugh.

The shadows of the church play over the square in front of it.

Interesting gargoyle.

Cite walls

I know one thing to be absolutely true for me.  I was never able to make any progress in learning to speak French as long as I was bound by the need to be perfect about it. That's where I was so many, many years ago.  I had to give myself permission to make all manner of mistakes and get over myself before I could progress. Now I don't care if I say something stupid or incorrect--I accept the correction, try to incorporate it into my lexicon and move on.  I am no longer prideful about it, so I don't feel humiliation at being wrong.  It was enormously liberating--dropping that need to be the best, to be first, to get the A+.  I find that now I just want to communicate with people, not prepare for an exam. Putting down that boulder of having to produce perfection has been perhaps the most freeing thing I have ever done in my life.  I highly recommend it.

Une carcassonnaise???

Last night the wind rose. Shutters banged against the wall of a building down the street. It reminded me so much of the scenes in the movie Chocolat--when the urge to move on overtook the heroine, Vianne.  There was some magic in the wind last night, I know it.

Okay, I have been a touiste long enough....time to get serious about being here. I think that people who live in Carcassonne are called carcassonnaises....I would be une carcassonnaise...because today--ta dah--I got my library card!!

I took myself off to the tourist infomation center, but not to ask the standard questions--where to eat, how to get to the cite, where to I catch the boat for the canal cruise...shoot--I figured all of THAT out myself. 

No-I went in armed with several questions.  I wanted a map of the bus routes, which my downstairs neighbor said was impossible to obtain.  He obviously never talked his way into a French bureau after arriving two hours late for an appointment. I came away with the map; getting it wasn't even a blip on the experience radar.

The next thing I wanted was the location of a Protestant church.  Catholic churches abound here, and I could of course, always attend one of them, but I wanted a Protestant experience this trip. Besides, in this town, with the history of the Inquisition exterminating the Cathars, I am not inclined to patronize their churches.  I also asked for the location of the library.  Done, easy as pie.  And finally I asked where I might find contact information for a choir, because I wanted to sing.  They gave me a list of every activity, civic group, club, what have you, in Carcassonne.  I now know who to call if I would like to go hunting or if I would like to go parachuting.  And there are about five choirs listed, so I should be able to find somewhere to sing.

I apologized for asking unusual questions, and she replied, "Pas le pire." Not the worst!

As it turns out, the library is just a short walk from the apartment. And it is quite small. Downstairs, when I entered, I asked if I would be permitted to check out books. After learning about the paperwork-identity requirements, I finally had to ask, "Mais ou sont les livres?" But where are the books? One guy looked at me and said, "Il n'y a plus de livres!"  (There ARE no more books) I pretended to be aghast, until I got upstairs. Their collection is so, so small. 

I browsed through some of their local history and geography books, then took a seat at one of the many tables lined up along a bank of windows.  I have finally found a haven to which I can escape when the noise from the crying-screaming brat across the street becomes intolerable. I wrote for a while, and then, when the librarian came back to her desk, I approached her and told her my plight. I was just learning French and wanted to read, but not something so difficult that I would have to look up every word. I asked if perhaps she had something not too difficult. But nothing for les bebes, either.

She replied that it might be hard to find a book for me, since this is an adult library, but she had something in mind.  She handed me two volumes, apologizing that they were for adolescents and were not good literature! I replied that as long as there were no vampires in the story, I would be good. I just want something to help me improve.  I don't mind reading with my dictionary at hand, but I don't want to have to look up every other word.  Then, when I asked her if she would reserve them until tomorrow, when I would return with my lease, she told me she would make my card right now.  I could bring in the rest of the needed documentation upon my next visit.  What nice, helpful people I have encountered since I have been here. 

I cannot describe the thrill I experienced when she presented my with my library card.  In my mind, I have crossed some kind of divide.  I am sure that I will continue to visit and discover places in the area, but for now, for just a little, I belong.

Sword Fighting Update

My landlord Jason stopped by today.  It was the first we'd visited since his return from Spain.  He and his family went to the medieval festival on Saturday.  The topic of the swordplay came up.

He was as surprised as I was at the ferocity of the battle.  He told me that while he was there, an ambulance had to be called.  And they made one guy take off his metal gloves to find the source of the blood and to make sure that all his fingers were still attached.  They were in the elimination rounds.  I guess you do get eliminated if you are carted off in an ambulance.

We both agreed that such accurate representation of battle would never be tolerated in the UK, where he's from, or the US--the safety people would be all over everyone and have this shut down right away. He commented that they would be reduced to wooden swords in Britain.  And probably ones made from paper towel rolls in the US... However, we are in France, and what would one expect?  You put on armor, and you know the score.  You take your chances.  I mean these guys were seriously going after one another.  Really, the trophy wasn't THAT big.

The referee does something akin to a basketball tip off or dropping the puck in a hockey game.

  Notice HIS glove.

I wonder if anyone does dueling re-enacting.......

A Day to Be

Nothing really to write home about today.  It was a day to be.  I tended to chores--vacuumed, did dishes, cleaned the bathroom.  I handled some e-mail but am trying to get a balance there. I want to spend time on the computer, but I also want to be out enjoying the nice weather while it's still here.

I ran into Inge, the woman whom I met last week who cleans the apartments after a tenant leaves when Jason, the landlord, is absent. It was a great feeling to be walking over the Pont Vieux and recognize someone and be recognized by someone.  I think the qualifies as a milestone.

Bought the paper--the lady at the tabac recognizes me now and helps me with my French as we converse.  It must be frustrating for her-like teaching a baby.  But her patience and grace never flag. 

This Carcassonne eating regimen and having to take the spiral straight up staircase several times a day is paying off.  In ten days, I can see a difference in both the way my clothes are fitting, and how out of breath I get taking those stairs.  They are getting easier. 

I actually got some real writing done today.  It's the first non-journal, non blog writing I have made time for since leaving Brookings.  I feel like I am coming to the end of a very rough first draft and am actually looking forward to the editing process. 

Now to dinner preparations.  Having chicken, grated carrots (rapee) with Sicilian lemon, and leftover couscous.  It's so great to be able to cook here and not have to eat out all the time.  Only unlike in Brookings, there are actually places here you want to go to.

A gift to myself--it will look great hanging over my desk.

 Those of you who know what I did all those years in the classroom at Azalea--all those paragraphs I edited with my politically incorrect red pen--will smile at what is a perfect souvenir for me.  It's small, maybe 6 x 9, but so charming, I couldn't resist.  I found it in the Cite yesterday, in a shop that sells the work of the local artists and craftspeople.  I thought these were inspired, and this one certainly spoke to me.  And happily, I could afford it without any guilt.

Carcassonne Cite--Tourist Trap or History Buff's Holy Grail?

I walked up the hill to the Cite today.  It's a great workout; all uphill but not terribly steep, just enough to get the heart rate up. Today was the second day of the big festival and I wanted to see what was going on before the rains came again. It poured this morning around 7:30. 

You can't really see the fortress until you are almost upon it.  It's hidden by high walls of stone or earth.  So when it appeared, it did take my breath away. I was impressed by its size.  It's much bigger up close. I know there are technical terms for each one of its various architectural features.  Some people make a lifetime's study of them.  I am not one of those people. What I keep thinking about is the time frame during which  this was built and the tools and equipment, or lack thereof, used to build it. No backhoes, no cranes, no bulldozers.  Just shovels and pickaxes and buckets.  And lots of cheap labor.  We think, especially in the United States, that we are so smart and advanced.  In some ways we are, but I would be hard pressed to find anyone with the skill set to manually put up even a ten foot section of this wall.  At least a ten foot section that wouldn't collapse.

 I suspect they would not have set up tents here in the day--this was the moat..  There were so many people in costumes. It takes a lot of people to mount one of these festivals. I can't speak to the authenticity of the dress.   Even some of the tourists got into the spirit of the day and were sporting chain mail and crusader crosses.

 If you have a sword, you have to also carry a shield.  It looks like a beheading is about to occur, but I think no blood was shed.

With so many people, tents and booths spread out to manage the crowding.  Smart.

 Outside the main walls, before going over the drawbridge across the moat, there was a display of fighting.  The guys were in battle dress, with so much padding and then chain mail and steel helmets. God, how much must that all weigh?  They couldn't get dressed by themselves; they had to have help. I supposed that's what the knight's pages were for.  I also know that there's an entire lexicon for the pieces of armor and clothing; again, I don't care enough to learn and commit all that to memory.  The knights were fighting for a rather large trophy, actually.  This was more than a mere demonstration.

The bug guy in the white tunic was the referee.  The knight had interesting gloves.

Green tunic was waiting for the guy with the black headgear to get dressed.  They were the finalists.

All this metal protection is needed.  These guys mean business.

Hello sailor!  Er soldier....

Almost finished dressing

It took several guys to get his gloves on and to get his chain mail placed just so over all the padding he had.  This is no touch football game; these guys are swinging big, heavy, sharp swords around.  It's loud and for me, vaguely disconcerting.

And we agree to be chivalrous, but I am going to beat you senselesss.

The guy on the left scored a quick point.

The rules must be something like epee fencing rules.  There are judges watching to see if someone actually gets a hit.  You can bang the other guy on the head.  Even inside these steel helmets, that's got to hurt.

They started out slowly, but then really went after each other.

I think he lost.

 

 

I think this guy lost, because even though he was stronger, green tunic was quicker and more aggressive.

Two of the judges

 

 

 

Whenever one of the swordsmen would score a hit on the other's body, these judges would call the point, and the fighters would start over again.

I gathered my wits about me and crossed the drawbridge and entered the city.  The streets are narrow, cobbled passageways. Packed with people, it was sometimes difficult to get through, although it was worse when I left, around 2:45, than it was when I arrived.  Sometime soon, before the weather gets bad, I will go back and simply wander the alleys when the crowds of the festival have dispersed.  I found myself thinking about how safe the people who lived here must have felt.  And there were people who probably never set foot outside the walls of this city during their entire lives.  What must it have been like-- no electricity, animals everywhere, no running water?  We romanticize those days, but I will bet they weren't all THAT wonderful. 

The drawbridge chain.  Carcassonne basse ville (lower city) in the distance.

 

 

 

Somehow, I think there was one of those metal gates with the spikes that dropped down here.

 

A Medieval pickup truck.

I went to visit the chateau but couldn't buy a ticket because I had only a 50 Euro bill and they didn't take bills that large.  No matter, there will be other opportunities to see inside there.  I did see their nice little raised bed kitchen garden.  Well tended, but really, how many people could it feed?

Entrance to the chateau,

Not a weed in sight.

I was also fascinated by those vertical slit windows in the castle walls.  They taper to a narrow opening, I suppose, so a bowman could stand and have room to move a little as he shot his arrows through the slit. Pretty ingenious. 

Hard, unyielding and unforgiving stone-good protection.

Can you see the taper?  Enough for my shoulders to fit. Probably enough for two of those little Languedoc archers.

Yes the place was crowded.  I knew it would be. I decided to have lunch and chose one of the places that was more open and airier than some of the restaurants closer to the center square.  Had carpaccio de boeuf, and a couple of frites.  The beef was wonderful. For the uninitiated, it's raw beef sliced thinly enough to read through it, drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice and garnished with what I think was either Pecorino or maybe Parmesan cheese.  There were people with their dogs and a couple of cats who wandered in amongst our feet. I read the paper and generally had a relaxing afternoon.  I know I should be hungry for dinner, but I am not in the least.

This was taken near one of the squares.  It's a way to remind myself that people once did live inside these walls.  A few, a very few-- still do.  I think there are fewer than 250 residents altogether. Everyone else who works in one of the shops commutes here from the lower city.

Shoppers and eaters as far as the eye could see.  It got more crowded as the day wore on.  Much of the merchandise the stores were selling--I have seen for sale for less down here where I live.  And there were the expected medieval action figures, and plastic swords (and some metal ones, too) and helmets and shields.  

The Cite must bring in tremendous tourist dollars, and that's not to be sneezed at. Or sneered at.   But I think I will like it better when I can go there and really explore.  I want to walk the ramparts and look over the broad plain to the foothills. (I actually got to see some of that today, when the cloud cover lifted long enough to see into the distance.)

There is an issue with pigeons, and their "contribution" shall we say.  Every once in a while, they fire off a noise that sounds like a cannon and the pigeons scatter. But then they return.  Carcassonne was never defeated by the invaders from the north of France, but I think the pigeons are winning this battle.