Desolee

Can spring be far behind?

I ran a few errands this morning--I don't want to ever run out of coffee, filters, or that universal staple, papier toilette.  On the way back, I stopped at the fruitier for some clementines and I also bought a tomate noir (black tomato).  Then I made my normal stop at the tabac for the newspaper. When I talked with Marie about it, her first statement was, "It's not the season for black tomatoes."  How different is that mindset from ours in the US, where we think we should be able to eat anything we want regardless of the time of year?  (Or whether it tastes good or is even good for us?)  I felt a little embarrassed by my willingness to eat out of season to satisfy my curiosity. I explained to her that I have never seen a black tomato before.  She told me her father grows them in his garden, and they'll be ready in August.  This one came from Spain.

Then I made a stop at my butcher's, where I ran into my upstairs neighbor.  I don't know that Michel will get rich due to our business, but 34 Rue du Pont Vieux does shop there--a lot. For me it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he is about the cutest man on the planet!!!  They were very busy--I guess it pays to be the best at what one does, and Michel is the best.  I bought two very thin slices of country ham to try.  I talked with the butcher, after first apologizing (desolee)  for my bad French, about the tourists making him tired.  He protested valiantly.  The people here have never been short-tempered or impatient with me.  I marvel at their ability to deal with us. Then we negotiated the tricky waters of how many slices and how thick to cut them.  I would like the sunlight to shine through. He came through like a champ. 

Mostly I begin all my conversations with, "Desolee,"--  sorry-- and that seems to pave the way. People love to help, if they have the time. And here in the grand sud, there always seems to be time.  I don't know how it is in the summer. I have heard from many people that the Cite, at least is just awful.  

A Frenchman and his beret caught my eye

Believe it or not, I have my bedroom window cracked open a little.  I think spring might be on the way--the daffodils at the florist this morning were awfully tempting. 

Talking Politics

We love our Cite and our city!

Yesterday, during the meeting I had with Michel Jas, the sometime pastor of the Protestant church in Carcassonne, we touched on the topic of politics.  Interesting, then, that I would be going to a political rally that same evening.  I have never felt any great urge, at least not since the late 60's and early 70's, to get out and be politically active, but I was curious as to what a political rally would be like here in France.

Jean Claude Perez is a member of the socialist party.  60 years ago, telling the world that I attended a socialist candidate's rally could have landed me in hot water with Congress.  Who knows; it might still.  I don't care.  I wanted to hear what he had to say. I think the problems faced by municipal governments today are fairly universal and I wondered if he had any new viewpoint.

The venue, the Jean-Alaury Theater, was full. I will wager any amount of money that I was the only "tourist" there. The first thing I noticed was that people were fairly well dressed.  Maybe it's that I have just gotten used to the dress code in Brookings--sweatshirts and sneakers.  Yes, there were men in jeans, but they were ironed (the jeans, not the men), and worn with button up shirts and sweaters.  I didn't get the feeling that it was a particularly rich crowd; there's just a different dress code here.  The crowd was really mixed--all ages, except for toddlers, were there, as well as lots of women. What really struck me was how much these people care about their city and the shape of its future.

There wasn't a lot of flash, or bells and whistles.  The program opened with a fairly simple slide show.  Monsieur Perez spoke naturally and with great enthusiasm. He talked about the need to give some relief and encouragement to the small business owners who can create jobs.  He talked about tourism and the advances in the quality of life for most Carcassonnais that the present government has made--updating libraries, fixing streets, opening a new swimming pool, getting health care facilities upgraded, since 2009, when he won the election.  

I was also impressed by his insistence on  consensus building and taking everyone's needs into consideration--and then taking some action. He doesn't just talk something to death and then never does anything.  He grew quite passionate when talking about not tolerating hatred and bigotry. His "team" consists of representatives of nearly every color of the spectrum---female, Muslim, young, blind, handicapped, retired, lawyers, artists.   It looks like he walks the talk.

Mostly I came away wishing my own government--federal, state and local, could take a page from his book.

50 Euros

A bit of whimsey outside the Protestant church

I don't know where to start this.  How about with the "catastrophe" first?  I lost a 50 Euro bank note today.  I have no idea where--obviously at one of the three stops I made:  the tabac, for the paper, the little sandwich shop for lunch,  or at Monoprix, where I fished out 3 Euros in coins for a little purchase.  The lines were so long, however, that I put the merchandise back on the shelf, deciding that it could wait.  Then when I got to the Carte Orange store to re-supply my phone with money, I noticed that my 50 Euros was not there.  Oh dear!  

First of all, it's not France's fault.  I have lost money the same way in the U.S.....I just don't notice things.  The second thing is that I should be more upset.  I am a little; it's not like I  have 50 Euros to lose.  It means no meals out for 2 weeks--and no extras in the food budget.  But I have to confess that my real gut reaction was that I hope whoever found it could really use it and that it brought a ray of light into his or her day.  I hope the person is truly grateful and will in turn, do something unexpectedly nice for someone else.  I know that sounds sickeningly sweet, but honestly, that's how I feel.  Such is the effect that this place has had on me.

Then I went to a meeting I had with Michel, the "pastor" of the Protestant church.  I thought the purpose was to go over the music for Sunday.  It turns out that he isn't even going to be here for the next two Sundays.  The point of the meeting was to simply chat--he mostly wanted to know about me and what in the world I am doing all alone in Carcassonne. He speaks no English, so we conducted the entire conversation in French, stumbles and all. It was WONDERFUL.  We talked about Protestantism in France, we talked about the geography and demographics of the southern Oregon coast, we talked about music, we talked about the Vietnam War, and we talked about how awful the Cite is during the summer,when it's clogged with tourists. We talked for nearly an hour and a half.  All. In. French.

It gave me such confidence that on the walk home, I was able to approach the men who were trimming the plantane trees at Place Gambetta and ask them why they were cutting them so severely....and if it hurt the trees to do so.  I have seen so many of these trees hacked back to just the main trunk.  The man of the hour told me that it was necessary to stop the spread of the blight that's afflicting the plantanes along the Canal du Midi.  He was actually quite nice and patiently answered all my questions. 

It was a beautiful sunny day.  I spent some time outside, writing  and soaking up the rays.  I had a nice lunch, I had a good walk, I had a great meeting, a wonderful interchange with the arborists and I got to exchange pleasantries with my butcher. And it's not finished.  Tonight I am going to a political rally. I know I should be upset, but all of that makes 50 Euros and a little belt tightening look like nothing. 

I am going to his opponent's rally

Prix Prosper Montagne and Other News

For anyone who is curious as to the outcome--the Propser Montagne Prize was awarded to a Japanese chef, Kuki Kumamoto.   Chef Robouchon was made an honorary Carcassonnais citizen. 

 

At the same time as the cooking contest, there was a visit to city hall involving all the bakers and patissers of the city.  "Your profession is essential," the city official told them, "for what would happen if the bakers stopped making bread?"  Indeed!?  Then they all had a big galette des Rois (it's a kind of cake that has treats hidden in it and is yummy).  I love this city!

 

Tomorrow night I am attending a political meeting for one of the mayoral candidates.  There is always something to do in this town, and it's not even tourist season.

 

A case of the plantane tree blight has been discovered along the Canal inside the city limits. The authorities are trying to find a cure other than cutting down all the affected trees.

 

There's an upcoming series of lectures about art of the Occitan region from cave paintings to the present.  I plan to attend and learn..

 

And the French are planning on a mission to Mars and one of the people chosen is a woman who is a hairdresser.  God, but I love this country!

The Elusive Cooking Competition

Chef Boucheron

Today, at least for a while, the sun shone.  I took myself off in search of the Prosper Montagne Prize competition.  I first went to the Tourist Board, and they couldn't give me an answer when I asked if the public was allowed to watch.  Then I found the Chamber of Commerce, and they didn't know whether or not it was open to the public, either.  But they were able to give me the address of the CFA buildings where the competition was being held. Because I have been on the bus that goes out that way, I felt reasonably confident that I could find it.  Off I went.

I got off at the correct stop and made my way in what seemed to be the generally correct direction.  There is a school complex there where various trades are taught, I think.  I asked direction of two teachers out for a cigarette break and they confirmed that I was indeed on the way.  They gave me a final set of directions. I have no qualms now about asking people for directions (not that I ever had many before) and if I am asked for directions, I always, always try to help.  I have heard stories of people, a.k.a. American tourists, being deliberately led astray, but I have never had that happen to me.

Cradling the wine very carefully

I arrived at the cooking school facilities and followed the sign to the office, where I asked the tallest Frenchman I have ever seen if the public was permitted to watch.  He told me that he didn't know anything about that group, and then very gallantly offered to lead me to the hall.  

This photo was an accident, but I like it.  It captures the spirit of the Festival.

Once at the door I was greeted (that's a nice way of saying stopped) by some dignitaries.  When I asked if I could be permitted to watch, I obviously confounded at least one of them. He asked me what media organization I was with.  I told him I was just an American tourist who wanted to watch the cooking. At that point the handsomest man I have ever seen stepped forward and took over the conversation in English. I finally understand the meaning of "sharp dresser."  He was so stylish as to cut my eyes out.  Wow, wow, wow!  Anyhow,with the utmost charm and poise, he told me that the public was not permitted, and gave me the run-down of the day's events. At the present, he explained, they were taking publicity photos of the competing chefs. Then they will present the produce at 1:00 for the chefs to make their selections.  Can you imagine the quality of THESE ingredients?  The events won't be over until nearly 7 or 8 this evening, when Chef Boucheron will award the prize.  I agreed that it probably was too long to watch and made him promise to take lots of photos; he agreed and gave me his card with address of the web site.  He is the President International of the Club Gastronomique de Prosper Montagne.  I think in the culinary world, that's a big deal.

He was nice to me, but I will bet he brooks no nonsense in his kitchen.

I should have asked Chef Boucheron when I was talking to him on Saturday, to intercede on my behalf, but I didn't think of it. He was nice enough; I'll bet he would have done so.

So, I didn't get in; apparently they couldn't believe anyone would even want to watch. I did get to have a good long walk in the sun. I learned a different part of town, and enjoyed a most pleasant conversation with an Arab woman on the bus back into the Bastide.  I got home before the rain shower, and the sun is back.  All in all, it is still a good day.

More Photos of Saint Vincent and Wounded Wicker Man

The floodwaters broke his arm, but his heart is intact.

The rain has stopped, at least for a little while.  The Aude has gone down somewhat, but my wicker man has a broken arm, I guess the force of the rushing water was too much for him.  There was a patch of blue sky this morning on the way to church and some sunshine in the window this afternoon--perfect for writing.

He was underwater yesterday

Today's paper has photos of yesterday's festivities; the article's caption reads that Prosper Montagne could be proud of the goings-on.  I think that's true.  I did not go out to the little town for all the truffle celebrations today, but I am very anxious to get to watch the cooking competition tomorrow.  I have yet to learn the time and place, but I will get the answer either in tomorrow's paper or I will take myself off to the city tourist office and get the scoop.  I hope they let the public come and watch; according to reports, they've invited chefs from all over the globe.

The Hunting Horn choir from the front.   How elegant they were.

In Limoux, the world's oldest and longest Carnaval celebration has begun.  The millers are in charge this year, and their photo appeared in the paper today.  They were all decked out in their white jackets, red kerchiefs, and great masks.  When my company gets here, we shall make it a point to go out there and join in the merriment. I do happen to know where there is a mask store, if we need to wear masks.

The theater troupe presented a concept "piece"  offering food items.

I played the hymns again in church this morning.  There were all of 19 of us present, and the service was lovely.  They are so desperate, if they ask ME to play.  They had a guest violinist, who also played the hymns, so we had sort of actual music this morning.  I am learning all these new hymns, but I can't play and sing in French at the same time.  It's just too hard.  They have invited me to a dinner on March 9--for "new" people.  And there is one sweet, sweet man, in his 80's at the very least, who's nearly stone deaf and who comes up and talks a blue streak to me every Sunday, and I have not one clue as to what he is saying.  I did get today that he plays the drum (or used to)....his grandfather, who hailed from Narbonne was a musician, but his three sons (one of whom was this man's father) were all painters.  I think it might be very hard to leave these people come April--they have all been so wonderful.  Even the German lady who shushed me and I are becoming friends.  

Fruits, especially from the vine

A big cake

All manner of gourmand offerings

They lined up "at the table" with their bowls

And then they threw cream at each other

Sat down and reclined  "at table"

And then crawled under the tablecloth.  We all clapped!

Festival of Saint Vincent

Wine just for the day!

Saint Vincent is the patron saint of the vintners, and today we celebrated his festival day.  He was tortured by being pressed, thus the connection between him and the grapes/wine.  Today the city fathers and all of the major "confederations"-  the clubs or organizations dedicated to things gastronomic, met to celebrate their passions and ask for Divine blessing on the upcoming season.  In an occupation as risky as agriculture, help is asked for from all quarters in order to stay afloat.

The morning was full of color and personalities.  There were the groups themselves, arrayed in robes and chains and medallions.  

The Confreres of Castlenaudary-- home of cassoulet.  Their medalions are little terra cotta cassoles

There were local heads of the branches of government dealing with agriculture.  News media--print reporters and tv stations were photographing the action. A local theater troupe provided some conceptual "pieces." There were some tourists, of course, and people like me who live here and wanted to see the spectacle.  What I most liked was that while tourists were welcome, this wasn't being done for their benefit.  These people were having this for themselves; and it really didn't matter whether or not others watched or took part.  They were not putting on a show for anyone's benefit but their own.  

Yes, they do play with their backs to the audience...

I heard that the guys playing the French horns were the local chasseurs  the hunting club. I wanted to ask someone if being able to play the valve-less French horn was as much a requirement as being able to shoot. And I am going to get the answer, but just not today.  They were the leaders, and announced the start and movement on to the next stop with wonderful fanfares in multi-part harmony.  They looked good, too.  

The black robes and hats are the truffle confederation

I have lots of photos of the robes, and the costumes and the music.  We went from the cloisters of the art museum through the pedestrian streets of the bastide, stopping at local points of interest having some connection with food. 

Inside the Cercle Taurian Carcassonne

 My favorite place, and one I probably never would have set foot inside of was the Cercle Taurian Carcassonne---a club dedicated to  bullfighting culture.  The club members had set up open bottles of wine and had some food and in there is where the best singing took place.  There was an Occitan folksong (I can recognize the language now) and the hunters group sang something in masculine 4-part harmony.  

The corks are NOT going back in these bottles!

I had a little glass of delicious white wine--and before noon. How decadent!

Confederation of vintners...

The point of the walk through the streets was to get to Saint Vincent's church, where the wine was blessed.  With a proper sermon from the priest as well. There was a double meaning not lost on anyone, even me, when the priest finished blessing the wind, took a drink and pronounced it "good." 

The wine is blessed as "bon."

Probably not going to see this on the altar steps in Brookings.

The French horns played several fanfares inside the cathedral--I thought my heart would stop. The organist gave a little recital as part of the festivities Pieces by J S  Bach, Alexandre Guilmant, and Charles Widor made up the concert, and not one person moved a muscle or got up to leave.

Set up for lunch at Halles Prosper Montagne

 From Saint Vincent's the procession made its way to the hall in Carcassonne which is being dedicated to Prosper Montagne, a Carcassonnais gourmand who wrote and promoted gastronomy during the last century.  There was going to be a meal for nearly 500 people; and they had the place all set up for their guests. I don't know what was on the menu, but it wouldn't surprise me to see truffles and cassoulet. It was too pricey for me--I came back home for my own leftover boeuf bourguignon.  Yum.

 Tomorrow, the chef(s) take over.

VIP's

Blahs

I want the sun to reappear....rain, rain, go away...

I haven't written on my blog for a day or so, mostly because nothing very worthwhile has happened. I have been dealing with intermittent computer and Internet issues for the past 2 days--what a pain that can be, and it just drains me.  It may be weather related; it's been raining for a day and a half.  It's not cold here, fortunately, but grey.  I went out to take care of the recycling and to get my newspaper and the wind nearly lifted me off my feet.  Le mistral, I think.

I watched a very disturbing investigative journalism piece the other evening about the tanneries in Bangladesh.  I am now close to foreswearing leather products unless I know the country of origin.  I have already been practicing some of that--I won't buy food made or processed in China.  And now I want to know where my footwear originates.  We westerners should be better informed. I did write the rough draft of a poem about it; it will stew for a while and then I will edit it, but I am already pretty happy with it.

At any rate, I have not been very energetic today. I did some housework and have done some writing, and have tried to do some work for "work."  I want to go to a concert this evening at the Chapeau Rouge--it is Occitan music.  Perhaps a little nap.  I wish my energy level didn't so much depend on the weather. 

Tomorrow Carcassonne celebrates the Festival of Saint Vincent--the patron saint of winemakers.  This weekend the city fathers are dedicating a hall to Prosper Montagne, a native Carcassonais who was quite the gourmand and promoted the foods of this area.  (Before I knew about him, I read one of his books-his essay about cassoulet is Divinely inspired, I believe.)  There are all sorts of activities here in the Bastide tomorrow through Monday, all revolving around food and wine and chefs. There will be a blessing of the wine and at Saint Vincent's church with an organ concert to follow.   I expect to be in full attendance, so I need to feel a little peppier...

Late Afternoon Stroll

From the bridge that carries the traffic. 

I went for a little walk yesterday afternoon--taking a route that was completely new to me.  I am embarrassed to admit that I am such a creature of habit, that I always walk in the same direction, and that it's taken me this long to explore this street.  I am feeling a little panicked because my time is slipping by and there are still places to be discovered.  I found a new patisserie--maybe the best in Carcassonne, a different view of the Cite and the Aude, and a "boulodrome" where men gather to play bocce, or boules in French. 

Another view of the Aude and "wicker man"

The patisserie rivals Le Notre--the every elegant one in Paris.  This place, Bimac, creates works of art and beauty. One of their creations would make any dinner party quite special.  The proprietor is also a chocolatier, and makes delicately decorated confections.  The saleswoman offered me a free sample of chocolate covered marshmallow; fortunately I don't like marshmallow, so it was easy to resist.  I will splurge when my guests come and we will see if their cakes taste as good as they look.

I love the "teeth" of the walls and their shadows

I walked across the Pont Neuf--the "new" bridge that carries traffic southeast across the Aude.  I got an entirely new view of the Cite and the wicker man on the island. It was breathtaking.  

The Narbonne gate?  I am not sure.

Across the bridge, along the Aude, I also discovered the boules courts--and there were several games in full swing.  One thing that I noticed was the absence of women.  Is this still a men-only game?  Do women just lose interest?  I leaned on the stone wall above the courts and watched for quite some time. It was interesting to me to see that they had strong magnets on long strings that picked up the boules  when it was time to retrieve them.  The men didn't even have to bend over.  Believe me, these men were taking this VERY seriously.  Maybe it's the Carcassonne version of the Super Bowl? 

This is serious business

Long late-afternoon shadows

Who is closest?

Wolves at the Bus Stop

Safely home to my seat for lunch and the newspaper, until it's time for an afternoon stroll.

What is it with old men and the bus stop?  Are there some rules I haven't learned yet? 

It is heart-achingly beautiful here today, so I thought a bus ride out to the St. Georges market would be in order--I wanted some more of the cereal that only they have, and I have been looking for bay leaves because I want to make another pot of beef bourguignon.  I set off at a reasonably early hour so I could be back home in time for lunch here.

I did indeed get the cereal and found the the bay leaves--finally.  I got a few other staples--coffee, filters, because they are cheaper there.  But for my meats and veggies, it's the butcher and open air market for me.  I was finished my marketing in nothing flat and headed back out to catch the bus home

Next thing I know, some old guy is rattling off rapid fire French--he didn't understand the bus system.  It can be a little confusing to people who are used to driving.  So, I explained it to him--can you appreciate the irony--and we began a conversation.  I learned that his Peugeot is in the garage--transmission trouble. He needed some light bulbs, and proceeded to extract them from his pocket and explain to me the difference between the kind that just pushes into the socket and the kind he purchased, which has threads.   He was born in Carcassonne, and except for his stint in the Army, he's lived here in the Aude most of his life.  We were having such a pleasant conversation--by his own admission, he spoke no English, until he wanted to know where I lived (I lied--I never give out that information to strangers), if I was married, or if I wanted a boyfriend while I was here in Carcassonne. He asked for my phone number and I told him I didn't know, (which is mostly true) so could he call me sometime.  All the while flashing his wedding band big as life.  The old goat!

We parted company when we both got off the bus at Andre Chenier.  I swear to God that I am going to pay closer attention to the bus schedule so I don't again find myself with 25 minutes to wait.

But hey-- I got great practice speaking French!

Mundane to the Sublime

Using a red washer and red dryer makes me smile...

This morning I stripped all the bedding and took both sets of sheets and towels to the launderette around the corner.  I do have a washer/dryer combination in the apartment, but it's not big enough to handle two sets of king size bedding and all the towels in the apartment.  Jason usually picks up these bigger laundry loads and takes them to the "nunnery" that operates a laundry service.  But he's not had the occasion to be in town and I wanted this done, so I ventured off to the launderette.

There was a certain familiarity to the machines and once I realized that there was a central payment machine--pretty nifty, really--one "teller" operates all the machines, I was on my way to clean linens. The place was clean, has free wifi and all of the machines were clean and in good working order.  I had my notebook with me and was able to put the time to very good use.  

You can see that it's not cheap!

Doing laundry here is expensive, so I think twice before putting something in the wash just because I wore it once.  It's not as if I am out doing field work on a farm. Really, how dirty did my jeans get today when all I did was take a walk and do the dishes and sit at my computer?  As long as I am clean and my unmentionables are clean and fresh, I feel okay about it. A big machine-- for all the big items I had, costs 7 Euros 60 for a wash. Drying time is 1 Euro 20 for 10 minutes. My laundry took 30 minutes to dry.  I think that when things become expensive enough, we really start to appreciate the resources of the planet and not waste them.  

I came home and chopped vegetables for soup and listened to the radio. They played a recording of Claudio Abbado conducting Mahler's Second Symphony.  It knocked the wind out of me--by the middle of the last movement I was streaming tears; it was that beautiful. I know what dawn sounds like, and it's that last movement when the chorus comes in and is intentionally barely audible.  I didn't dare breathe for fear I would miss a single note.  The soup won't need any salt.  

Now they are playing several movements from Verdi's Requiem---I am wrung out!  The sun is shining this afternoon and I think a little walk would be in order.  What a wonderful day this has been.  I must be in the right place on the planet, because something as pedestrian as doing the wash felt right.

A sing-song nursery rhyme taught me that Monday is wash day.

"Dead" Language? A Rhetorical Question.

Some of the panelists. The lady is Mirelha and the bearded guy is her husband

Yesterday afternoon I attended the round table at Grain d'Sel, my local library.  The topic for the day was "Why Learn Occitan Today?"  The panelists included two people from the Ostal Sirventes group that I attend. In addition, there was an artist, a writer, a teaching consultant and representatives of other groups promoting the Occitan language and culture.  Thanks to Mirelha, everyone on the panel knew there was some American woman in the audience.  You can tell when people are talking about you--they turn around and look at you as if studying a specimen.

I didn't get everything that the panelists said, but I got quite a bit. Part of the reason is that they were speaking in Occitan and several of the speakers spoke such rapid-fire French that I had to concentrate to keep up.  That's the way it goes--they are speaking for one another, not for me.  I got some of the jokes, but not all of them.  There was also a lot of extraneous noise--chairs being moved, clopping footsteps and barely concealed whispers.  Last time I checked I had really, really acute hearing, but one woman spoke so softly that my problem was not with understanding her, it was that I couldn't hear her.

The guy wearing glasses is a visual artist and was most animated.

I learned that Occitan was the language of the Resistance.  In order to be fair, I think they presented both sides of the debate over whether or not learning Occitan had any relevance in today's Languedoc.  The argument was made that in many parts of the world, especially in Africa, people accept speaking several languages as a matter of course--there's the language of the village, and then perhaps a regional language as well as the language of the country.  So many of the people on the panel learned the language in the farmhouses of their grandparents. People learn these different tongues as children, and that was the point in favor of keeping the study of Occitan in the schools here. 

As a result of this round-table, I was awake most of the night thinking about language and culture.  For instance, in Occitan, my name is Carlotta. I am a firm believer that our names shape, to a very great degree, the way other people see us, and even the way we see ourselves.  Some names carry more gravitas than others--Bambi versus Elizabeth....So, how is Carlotta different than Charlotte? How am I different if I think of myself as a Carlotta?  It's hard to get my mind around that.

I need to learn more about Occitan "culture." How is it different from the culture in Paris, for instance, or in Brittany or the Dordogne?  What makes up a culture, anyway?  Language?  Music? Food? Values? Tribes? The discussion last night came around to music.  The panelists were displaying some of the "older" generation's dislike of modern music in which the lyrics are not intelligible.  I so desperately wanted to ask these people, "If a music group plays hip-hop and the words are in Occitan, is it Occitan music?"  Does Occitan music mean something centuries old that has long passed out of current fashion?  If culture doesn't evolve, does it die? And if it evolves to the point where it is no longer distinguishable from that of others on the planet, does it die?  What is the point in keeping old traditions, foods, languages alive?  And how do we keep it alive without changing it beyond recognition?  

I have a lot of things to think about.

Spring Fever at the Saturday Market

Market day and people are happy

There was a very slight hint of springtime at the market this morning.  Maybe it was no more than wishful thinking on my part.  Maybe it was that it was fairly mild, no freezing hands and having to be bundled up to my eyebrows.  But still--I saw fresh strawberries and fresh raspberries from places where spring has arrived (or maybe never left). 

It's not too crowded--yet

But I think my mild case of spring fever has to do with all of the yellow flowers for sale.  Of course I had to inspect; at first I thought it might be broom.  They call these "Mimosa" but they bear little resemblance to the fuzzy pink flowers I associate with the mimosa trees of my childhood.  I looked up the word in both my dictionary and on-line with no results.  Then I decided that I didn't really care--the important thing is that they are beautiful, cheery and bring some sunshine indoors.  Yes, I had to buy some!  

Sunshine in a bunch

Coins change hands

I got there a little early to miss the crush of people that arrive between 10 and 11 every Saturday morning.  It can get difficult to maneuver through the throng of people and baskets and wheeled shopping carts and strollers.  There were some new vendors there today--one selling chocolate and nougat. I walked right on by, but I wanted to stop.  Fortunately for the vendor, there was a fairly long line.  

My weekly marketing

This afternoon I am going to attend a round table at "my" library.  The topic is the status of studying Occitan in today's world.  Some of the people from the conversation class are going to be on the panel, and I would like to not only support them, but am genuinely interested in what they have to say. 

Sunshine inside my apartment

I also got stopped by one of the workers from Jose Perez's campaign team (he's the Socialist candidate who's running for mayor) and got invited to hear him speak on the 29th.  I explained that I was from the United States, and couldn't vote. She told me to come anyway, and I think I will.  I think the civic problems we wrestle with are universal and I would be interested in how he plans to address them. 

I completed my morning marketing and came home to work.  I have some writing to work on--it's the part of this "adventure" that always seems to get the short end of the time stick. Then I wrestle with the guilt, because I came here to learn French and to write.  I am making some progress with the first, and working at a snail's pace at the second.  

I can't resist.  They remind me of forsythia.

Next weekend is the Festival of Saint Vincent.  I am also seeing posters and articles in the newspaper about the coming carnaval celebrations.  I can't imagine ever being "bored" here in Carcassonne.