Act 2 -- The Curtain Rises

Five months and 10 days.  A good run.  A good rest.  A good adventure.  A good period of self reflection.  Making friends. Trying new food.  Spending time with Susan. Traveling. 

And it comes to an end tomorrow.  I go back to work. 

I'd gotten so used to NOT going to work.  When we were traveling, sometimes Susan and I would look at each other and proclaim, "What have we done?", or "Are we really doing this?"  We'd meet people and explain what were were doing, and be met with a look of puzzlement.  What we were doing was not "normal", but as far as we were concerned, it should be.  If you have a chance to take a break somewhere mid career, go for it.

I am ready to go back.  Have a mission that is not just about "me".  There were times I felt guilty about being so self-absorbed, but then I knew it was only temporary.  It was important to spend time on "me".

I take away from the adventure that there's a balance between taking care of my own needs, and contributing to my community.  Whether that community is my family, my neighborhood, my profession or my world.  Moving forward, I hope to keep the world in balance.  Between my workaday life, and other interests. 

Just Give Me a Project
 I'm 52.  "Normal" retirement age is 13 years from now.  Or maybe 15, depending on how you calculate it.  And it's not abnormal for people to live into their 70s, 80s and beyond.  That's a lot of years.  If at some point I stop working in the normal sense of the world, what will I do?

What will I do? It's a question that will be faced in droves by my generation.  The boomers.  And as I've talked to people around my age, I hear the questions being asked. 

So, give me a project.   Or, more specifically, I'll be finding projects that I want to do.  Some will be at work.  After all, I'm an urban planning consultant, and I get paid to manage projects.  But there are other projects needing doing.  Long before I retire.  So that when the time comes to retire, I'll still be active, and more importantly, relevant.

I'll be exploring new frontiers in food.  New frontiers that are really old, but somehow over the last few generations have been lost.  We're in the best of times and the worst of times.  The best in that there is so much cheap food available that we no longer have to worry about getting enough calories just to survive.  The worst in that there are so many cheap calories around that we've developed diets and lifestyles that make us ill.  That's a simplistic summary of a complicated problem, and if you're interested, please check out books by Michael Pollan and Mark Bittman who have written extensively and eloquently on the subject. 

Anyway, I'm a pretty practical guy, so I hope to search out new foods, try or invent new recipes, and tell the story through photos, video, and writing on my food blog, Improbable Pantry.  I've been writing there (and my previous blog, Chowplay, for a couple of years, but I hope to be a little more focused, and see if I can actually get a few people beyond my friends to read it. Stay tuned!

So, as I sit here on this warm (finally pleasant) summer evening on the back patio, protected from the mosquitoes by the tiki lamps and mosquito coils that actually seem to be working today, I look forward to the next act. And remember those days when I was THIS laid back...

Winding down, winding up. But then there's the food!

This five month break is winding down. I go back to work in five days. Five days! Less than a week. I could get philosophical about this. And maybe I will. But not now.

Right now, I just want to enjoy the memories. And transition.



Intermission is ending, but I'm gearing up some other exciting activities on my other blog, Improbable Pantry, about cooking and eating. So, migrate over to that site, and see what's cooking.

It seemed only fitting, then, to do a little tribute to the food of our trip, mostly in Europe, but some in North America and the Caribbean. Just a bit of fun. Enjoy!

Boston, as Visitor

We've been back for two weeks now, and it finally occurred to us to be tourists in our own town.  Our traveling instincts said to take the day to get the feel of the place before we figured out what to do.  But hey, we know Boston, and we were up for a walk, so we decided to check out the new(ish) Rose Kennedy Greenway.  I had watched it be built from occasional meetings at the top of One Financial Center, and had seen pieces of it completed,

Bottom line -- a decent start, but still a long ways to go. There were stretches that were wide open without a whole lot to recommend them.  This section here was filled in some more with attractive landscaping, and a cool (pun intended) misting fountain.

Further south, we enjoyed the plantings, and there were some people strolling, but really, the activity level was moderate, but certainly not buzzing.  Certainly not buzzing like some of the public spaces we saw in Europe.

We had just finished saying that what the Greenway needed was some food vendors, when we came upon this sight of a single food truck, called Clover, selling mostly vegetarian fare.  The food coming out looked good and healthy, reasonably sized, and the menu items were inexpensive -- about five bucks for a sandwich..  The Rhubarb Agua Fresca we tried was excellent -- not too sweet, though the iced coffee was a little bitter.  We discovered that this was only their third day at the Dewey Square location. And then, when we picked up the Boston Globe the next day, we were encouraged to see this article about how there soon will be many more vendors in the square.   Here's hoping that the food attracts and keeps more people to the Greenway.

Check out a few more pictures of our stroll on Flickr.

So long, farewell, auf viedersehn, adieu

View Intermission in a larger map

Tonight's our last night on this European journey and we're winding down. We drive Brussels-Frankfurt tomorrow, and fly home in the evening.

We visited a lot of places. Spoke a few languages. Ate good food. Met good people. Saw this part of the world from different perspectives. Learned how much we didn't know, how much we take for granted, how things are not always as they seem. And how to find toilets in unfamiliar places.

Eleven+ weeks on the European portion of the journey. More than 14 weeks if you count the western hemisphere piece. We'll miss this vagabond life, but are happy to be heading home. And Susan and I still talk to each other!

I hope to do some more processing over the next few weeks -- of pictures, thoughts, reactions, comparisons. So this blog will continue.

Outdoor culture in The Netherlands

We tend to think of outdoor cafes in Paris, but we've found them all over in our travels.  But none have been as ubiquitous and energetic as those we found in The Netherlands.  In Amsterdam, there are whole streets taken over by outdoor dining, with one restaurant's seating flowing into the next.  And the large squares are often filled with seating.  These scenes repeat every few blocks.  Leave one buzzing plaza, walk a couple of blocks, and come upon another, also buzzing.  This is true in tourist areas and neighborhoods.  Moving on to The Hague and Delft, we found this as well.

It finally occurred to me that taking a simple photo would not convey the energy, so I opted for the video approach to capture the bee-hive.  This one was in Delft, on a public holiday when all the stores were closed.   But you can still feel it.  It is on the sight of the old cow market.  I suspect the buzz was a little different then.

And they all served Belgian beer!

I'm falling for the blonds

We're back on the whirlwind of travel. Since the flamingos in the Camargue, we've been to Antibes (near Cannes, a few days ahead of the filmsters); Liguria in Italy, not far from Nice, up on the mountaintop where Susan's sister Julia and Dudu live, among the medieval villages perched on the sides of mountains; Dusseldorf, where Susan's brother Sam lives with his family, Amsterdam and environs, and now in Brussels. We've gone from the places where wine is served with all meals to where beer is served with all meals and at snacks. I'm by no means a beer maven. I like a beer once in awhile, but often find that a beer makes me tired, so over the years, I've avoided them except for accompanying pizza and Mexican food, and to be social.

I challenge anyone to be in Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany without falling in love with the beer. As with wine and cheeses, I find that I can't remember the names of the ones I like from sitting to sitting. In Provence, I got accustomed to ordering the Cotes du Rhone or Cotes du Luberon wines, but couldn't tell you from which vineyard or town. The cheeses in the markets were so numerous and I wanted to try so many that I couldn't remember the ones I liked.

Belgian beer is world famous. And I'm finding out why. Beer accompanies lunch, late afternoon apertif, and dinner. In my world of beer there has been lights and darks. And perhaps I'd order a Pilsner or Lager on occasion if I wanted to seem like I knew what I was doing.

One day, Susan ordered a Duvel beer. A blond Belgian beer. I had ordered something else -- perhaps something dark, I really don't remember. When I tasted her Duvel, I was in love. It was smooth. Not bitter. A deep rich taste. Gorgeous color. Great curves. (In Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany each beer is served in its own distinctive glass). Next time, it was me that ordered the Duvel. And since then I've tried the blonds on the menu. Each has been great. Each with its own taste, but as a family, these Belgian blonds have captured my heart.

Susan thinks we can find Duvel back home.  I hope so!

Movin on....

No more pastis on the porch. No more self-cooked dinners. On the road again. Susan had a poetic farewell to Ansouis on her blog, and it's hard to improve on the sentiments, so I won't try.

We spent a few days in Arles, at the apex of the Rhone River delta, gateway to the Camargue. Arles is a fine small city, filled with Roman antiquities and medieval streets. It was also full of photographers, as it often is. It is home to France's National School of Photography, and there happened to be the annual exhibition of nudes in six or seven venues. It was great wandering around so many photographers and people that appreciate photography. The other photo part of the trip was a visit to the Cathedral d'Images in Les Baux de Provence, a slide show/movie presentation inside an abandoned bauxite mine, with images projected onto the walls in the 12 meter high rooms.

We timed our visit to the Camargue to match the one sunny day, and had a delightful driving, strolling time investigating the sights and the birds. The flamingos were a special treat. A great meal, too, at a small auberge far from anywhere, with the small local clams their specialty.

In the meantime, we've made our way east, with a quick stop in the maritime village of Antibes (between Cannes and Nice), with it's yachts of the wealthy and the Picasso museum, finding our way to the top of the hill in Castelvittorio, where Susan's sister and sister in law live.  We thought we'd had our fill of medieval villages, but the Italian version were so much different than the French that we were once again spellbound...stay tuned for some pics of the villages and of the terraced rural living that has to be seen to be believed.

Presently in the Nice airport awaiting a quick flight to Dusseldorf to see Susan's brother and family, and then the northern European portion of the journey.

Jumbo artichokes and jumbo mountains

Five weeks has gone by quickly.  It's Tuesday, and we depart Ansouis on Thursday.  Which means we've had to be judicious when visiting the markets, casting aside all sorts of culinary temptations.  Last night was "everything that needs to be eaten jumble". Which tasted pretty good, but still, you can feel the constraint and the underlying message that we'll be leaving here soon.

It was pouring rain and chilly this morning, which meant that the Cucuron market wasn't hitting on all cylinders. Only a few stalls, and not many people. The rotisserie chicken and potatoes cooked in chicken fat seemed like a good easy choice. And there were a few ginormous artichokes. I'd stayed away from artichokes since the disappointment with the little purple ones early in our stay here, but I'd been wanting to try these artichokes that were the size of grapefruits.

Simple steaming (for only a half hour -- I was surprised how fast they cooked). Simple mustard vinaigrette for dip, and we had lunch. There were some tough outside leaves, but the artichoke was as it should be, and the hear was huge. Part of the stem was edible as well.

The highlight of the week was the climb of Mont Saint Victoire, the mountain that Cezanne was fascinated with. Upon our arrival in Provence five weeks ago, it was an imposing presence as we departed the TGV station in our rental car. We'd been wanting to climb it, and finally did so when B&A invited us along on one of their hiking journeys.

It's even more imposing up close.  From this view, it looks like any other mountain (albeit one that's pretty bare), but from the south, you can see that the mountain top stretches for kilometers behind that pointy summit.  The photo is taken near the start of our climb.  It was a hardy two hour climb, with fantastic views throughout.  I loved the view down the west spine, showing the flowing geology of the mountain. And we had great views of Mont Ventoux off the north side. And lest the food theme that began this post be lost, our simple picnic lunches were made even more splendid by the frequent wishes of "bon appetit!" from the other hikers at the chapel near the summit. Everyone that passed us, without fail, expressed this joyous greeting.

Pics from the day!

Of Churches and Lunch

France has lots of churches.  Like the rest of Europe.  And a lot of them are old.  Really old.  And in places that may have once been bustling, but are now on the top of lonely hilltops.  Or desolate forest glades.  Some of these are ruins.  Some are kept alive.  Presumably by the Church (with a capital C).  But it might be the government.  Not sure.  For old times sake? 

The thing is, though, that no one seems to actually GO to church.  They barely go to the churches in the lively cities, much less the ones in neglected ruin-towns.  We were here on Good Friday, but no one took off, and it seemed like every other day.  Ditto Easter, though we did hear some bells ring.  The signs on the doors of the various churches around here say that Sunday morning services rotate among the three or four village churches from Sunday to Sunday.  But all of these are good sized churches that are being kept going.  In the US, The Church is closing churches for this reason.  That doesn't seem to be going on here.  Supply and demand doesn't seem to make a difference.

In Italy, at least, we saw people praying in the churches.  Among the tourists, there's always be someone taking a few moments for themselves.  Not here.  Strictly tourist attractions as far as I can tell.

This morning (Sunday morning), we went to the grandaddy of all the outdoor markets in Provence at Isle sur la Sorgue.  Blocks and blocks of produce, clothing, nic nacs, soap, lavender, sausages, and the thing that makes this one special -- antiques.  It was pouring rain when we left the house at 10:00, but cleared by the time we got there at 11:00.  Spent a good hour wandering the stalls, thankful that we have no room in our luggage for anything of substance.  (That's me talking -- I'm not sure if Susan is thankful or not).  The place was thronged.  I can only imagine how busy it would be if it hadn't been pouring rain just an hour before.  Or in the height of tourist season.

Roundabouts 12:00 we started to feel a little hungry, so scouted out some lunch opportunities.  Which were plentiful.  Plentiful.  But they had to be.  Because Sunday lunch in Isle sur la Sorgue, as in any other bustling place in the south of France, is like a game of musical chairs.  You can't wait too long, or you won't have a place to sit.  Because everyone eats at the same time.  At noon, you can have a table, but some have already been reserved.  By 12:30, the pickings are slim, and you might be eating off the pizza truck.  Since lunch is a two+ hour affair, there are no second chances.  (Though, at the place we ended up, there did seem to be a small throng of people looking hungrily in our direction.  I didn't think anything of it until I realized they were waiting for our tables!.  Which I hadn't seen for so long I didn't know what to make of it.)  We settled in at about 12:15, just in time to snag an outdoor seat, under an umbrella, that wasn't behind a market vendor's truck or on an awkward tilt.  Perfect. 

Lunch was good.  Very good.  Three-course "menu" for 15 euros.  (The last time I was in France, there were Prix Fixe menus everywhere -- I haven't seen that phrase at all this time.)  Mussels gratinee to start, duck-leg confit for the main dish and isle flottant for dessert (floating islands of meringue in a vanilla flavored sauce).  With a shared 0.5 liter picher of rose.  No one was in a rush.  Not us.  Not the kitchen.  The waiter seemed a little flustered, but I'm not sure why, because the attitude of the French waiters seems to be "you'll get your food when you get your food", and "I'll take your order when I'm good and ready -- you're going to be here for a few hours anyway, what's your rush?"  And unless we're starving, we're generally fine with that.  The other night, we waited a half hour for our menu.  We think it was punishment for not ordering apertifs. 

It would be nice if they thought to bring the little basket of baguette out when you sat down, rather than waiting for the first course.  Take the edge off a little?  No one seems to have thought of that.  Maybe it's illegal.  Did you know that the government fixes the price of baguettes?

By the time we'd finished our first course, we noticed that the streets had emptied.  EVERYONE was eating lunch.  Shopping's done.  Lunch begins.  This happens regularly here, even on weekdays.  Businesses close at least from 12-2.  Some from 12-3, and the grocery store from 12-4.  Plan accordingly.  Do not get between the French and their lunch.  Interestingly, though, more and more stores are open "non-stop".  We noticed many such signs in Aix en Provence.  And the Hyper-U is open non-stop.  I wonder what those negotiations with their labor force looked like?  I'll enjoy the convenience of non-stop shopping, but if the idea catches on, something larger will be lost.

No one's in church on Sunday, but everyone's eating lunch.  I can't complain with that set of priorities. There was a lot of family together-time.  And friends enjoying each other's company.  Good wholesome activities.  Maybe if they served lunch at church? 

That lunch you see at the top?  Not today's -- I didn't take a single picture today.  But it was yesterday's lunch, so it fits the topic.  Beef brain salad.  It was worth trying.  And inexpensive.  Like any cold cut really.  Susan's choice was much better -- shrimp sprinkled with grapefruit juice and cilantro.  That was worth reverse-engineering. 

Vibes of History

When traveling about Europe, you can't help but be entranced with the remnants of the past that are everywhere.  In the US, we have the occasional historical site, some less than 100 years old.  Here, especially in the tourist areas, but really everywhere, everything has a long history.  In Ansouis, the village where we're staying, there is a Chateau at the top of the hill that was built a thousand years ago. And ownership had been in the same family until just a couple of years ago.  I sometimes wonder when I see villagers and farmers how long their families have lived in this region.

There are also ruins everywhere.  Some from the Roman ages, some from medieval times.  The Roman ruins are stunning, but they're generally bits and pieces lying around, that don't give a sense of what life must have been like.  Some of the medieval ruins are well preserved.  For example, the village of Oppede le Vieux is a place I'd seen last time I was here, and was eager to show Susan.  The main attraction was the old village topped as usual by a chateau.  Although this chateau was in ruins, there was enough left to give some feeling of the time.  It had been a stronghold of a local ruler who had made it his business to seek out and destroy the Vaudois, the renegade Christians that were trying alternative approaches the the Pope's church.  Oppede le Vieux is perched on a hill on the north side of the Luberon with a commanding view of the valley below.  On the day we were there, it was crystal clear, and we could see Mont Ventoux.

But this was one chateau in one medieval village.  Then we visited Fort Buoux.  Pronounced beyu-ouks we are told.  Near the village of Buoux, a village of a little more than 100 people, this fort is on a promenade overlooking the Vallon de l’Aiguebrun, it has been inhabited for millenia, and there are archeological remnants dating back that far.  What you see most obviously is the 13th century fort that was ordered dismantled in the 17th century by Louis IV.   It had also been a place of refuge for the Hugenots (same as the Vadois?  I'm not sure).  There are several ramparts, guard towers, storage bins for grain and water, dwellings, and a Romanesque church.  Plus a secret staircase down the back. The vantage point makes this place impregnable.    An assortment of pictures on my Flickr page.

These were not the dwellings of the privileged that we see most places in chateaus, castles, schloss, pallazo.  These were people struggling to get by in homes no more ornate than caves, protected by several layers of trenches and walls, up on a hilltop promenade.  Though clearly impregnable to attack, it seemed to us very vulnerable to siege.  Where would the food come from if surrounded?  The sheer cliffs nearby must have provided hiding spots for defenders of this fort. (Apparently, this is a favorite spot for rock climbers, too).

The fort is the property of the commune of Buoux.  The caretaker lives on site and sells tickets in exchange for your 3 euros.  While visiting "up top", we were surprised by his head popping up from under a cliff -- apparently free-climbing up the wall.  He said he goes that way when he's in a hurry.  We chatted with his wife (well, we assumed it was his wife) for a bit, and found that they've lived there for 40 year.  Their home is graced by spectacular gardens, which they must have time to tend between groups of travelers.   Sneaking a peek inside, we were surprised to see a substantial pile of books on the table -- not your average ticket taker!

The Swifts -- Our Feathered Neighbors

We sit on the deck here a lot. A lot. To eat. To sun. To read. To knit. To chat. To check e-mail. Especially now that it's warmer, if we're at the house, we're up on the deck.

To keep us company, are the Swifts. They're a pack, swarm, family of small birds that cannot be ignored. One moment their floating on air currents, high above, subtly tipping their wings one way or another to steer. Next, they're swooping and diving, wings aflapping, making banked turns just over our heads. They get close enough we can hear their wings whoosh by, and when they're flapping, we can hear the flaps.

They fly independently, but often dance with their buddies, in twos, threes, fives, sixes. At any one time, we might see fifty or more, but sometimes there's only one or two. They tend to be out at our mealtimes (and theirs!), especially dinner, when the bug population must be highest.

We learned from JAdR that they spend virtually their entire lives in the air. The only time they come down is to nest. 80% of their lives in the air. These are not your average bird. Through some other internet sources, I've learned that they can (and often do) outrun thunder storms, flying hundreds of miles to avoid being rained on. They sleep "on the wing", up in the air currents. They were once thought to not have feet at all, but it turns out that they just have small feet. Why have feet if you're up in the air all the time?

We've come to enjoy the company of our friends, the Swifts.

As a side benefit to the Swift experience, I've discovered a whole new side of my cameras, that is the video piece. Now, I may be the last person on earth that's discovered this, but the video quality of these cameras is pretty swift. Susan and I also discovered a new use for the video. When we're out an about, and we want to remember something, and it's not something we can take a picture of, we can just record the other person saying it out loud. In a video file. Most people use the video for more creative things, but hey...use what you got.

Gnovel Gnocchi

 

The markets here abound with surprises. In Pertuis last Friday, Susan found some basil gnocchi, and she's a sucker for gnocchi any time. I'm generally less excited about gnocchi, rarely finding the potato-based pasta to be anything other than a gooey disaapointment. Susan made half the gnocchi last Friday for lunch, right after we got home. She enjoyed it, but wasn't overwhelmed. I demurred, figuring why bother.

The second half remained in the fridge, in the ubiquitous small paper bags that they give here at the markets that ensure that you can't see what you have on hand.

In the meantime, I saw a post somewhere about an alternative approach to gnocchi -- pan frying instead of boiling -- that really got my attention. Now, I'm a sucker for crisp, browned potatoes of any sort. Roasted potatoes, home fries with onions, whatever, and I'm a fan. (I wish I could give you a link to the inspirational post, but alas, I can't find it. I'm pretty sure it was Bittman, but the Times now has a new Diner's Blog replacing good ol' "Bitten" that I don't know where it is, despite my valiant few minutes of googling).   Update:  it was 101 Cookbooks.  Of course.

We had scored some asparagus from the honey lady at the Cucuron market on Tuesday.The thick bundle became part of lunch on Wednesday to accompany a charcoal-grilled chicken (first BBQ of the season!), but still had a bundle of the thin ones. The honey lady said the thick ones were best for stand-alone use, while the thin ones were good in things like omelets. Omelets, gnocchi...hmmm.

(By the way, I'm having a great time typing the word gnocchi. Gnocchi, gnocchi, gnocchi. Susan's even teaching me how to pronounce it properly -- think the transition between syllables of "banyan" or "canyon" to handle that awkward "gno" start.)

So. Couple of glugs of olive oil in the skillet. Couple of cloves of garlic minced, sauteed for a minute or so to flavor the oil. Add in the asparagus, sliced into three or four pieces each, on a bias. Add in the gnocchi at the same time. Cook on low for a few minutes to get them both cooked through, then crank up the heat to brown. A little salt and pepper before serving, and we're done.

I was in heaven. I'll eat gnocchi like this any time. with any kind of accompaniment. The texture was firm, but not mushy. The slight crunchiness added some interest. Like eating potatoes! Susan was disappointed that the basil-flavoring of the gnocchi (it was basil gnocchi) wasn't coming through, but I didn't care.  I have a feeling that sitting for almost a week in the fridge didn't do it any good on that score. The garlic/oil was enough for me. And the asparagus cooked this way was perfect as well.

Bring on the gnocchi I say. As long as I can use my skillet. Gnocchi, gnocchi, gnocchi, gnocchi.

To market, to market....

Well, the weather's turned from being cold at night and first thing in the morning, with a chance for cloudy/rainy/cold during the day or bright blue skies and crispy, maybe creeping up to 60 or 65 if we're lucky, to warm evenings and mornings, and stellar middays.  Today was supposed to reach the mid-70s, and I'm pretty sure it did.  But, dramatic stormy skies are way more interesting in photos, so that's the lead photo in this post, despite the title.

We spend a lot of time thinking about food and how/where to get it.  Each town has market on a different day.  Our little town of Ansouis has a small Sunday market, with one vegetable vendor, one charcuterie/ (salami, etc)/cheese vendor, one chicken/rabbit guy, and some jewelery.

The next small town over, Cucuron, is on Tuesday, with a larger market, boasting several vegetable vendors, honey/asparagus, cheese, salami, olives/tapenade and various dips, prepared foods, and clothes.  And, a couple of bar/cafes to rest after the effort of making decisions about what to buy.

You can also fill up your own bottles with your favorite wine at the wine filling station.

The little city nearby is Pertuis, and it's on Friday morning.  It's big.  Blocks long.  Anything and everything.  Lots of clothes and nick naks.  The paella I raved about the other day.  Competing with Pertuis on Friday is Lourmarin -- a small, chic town also with a large market, higher end stuff, and higher end prices.

Without a car, we've been fortunate to have friends offer to take us one place or another, but the market event can consume half the day.  Then, there's the Hyper-U.  Pronounced Eeeeper ooo.   I refused to say this for a while, when it's clearly the hiyper you, or as some of the expats we've met call it, the hyper-tension.  Think Walmart.  Always busy.  But they actually have some pretty good stuff, and I'm sure they've given the little markets a run for their money.  They rent cars too.  And cut hair.  Develop pictures.  Do laundry.

Anyway, it seems like we're always strategizing our next few meals, trying not to over-buy, which is easy to do, and trying not to go hungry.  So far, we've succeeded pretty well.

Eat to live.  Or live to eat.  My Uncle Walter always used to ask.  Here, it's clearly the latter.  We understand that the French spend a considerably higher portion of their income on food than others around the globe.  Unsourced information (well, sourced from Bjorn and Anne...not sure where they got it from), and it sounds about right.

Sometimes the best food comes from the street

We've been in Ansouis, in Provence, south of France since April 1, and today's April 17. So I guess we've been here a little bit, and are getting settled in. We're here for five weeks total, so it's close to the halfway point. Susan's been good about timely blogging. Check out If It's Tuesday, this Must be Ansouis.

It does seem like a lot of our time is spent thinking about food. We're doing most of our own cooking, save for a few lunches while we're out. We've opted not to have a car, at least for awhile, which means that we need to pay attention to where and when "market day" is in the towns we can reach by bike or bus.

Sunday mornings, our little village has a small market. Really small. The first Sunday there was the Chicken Guy, a produce vendor, and a purveyor of salamis. The next week saw one garment and one jewelry vendor. We'd seen the Chicken Guy and his competitors at the various markets. They have chickens cooking on rotisseries, with potatoes cooking in the fat just below. I promise to take a picture next time, but the picture doesn't convey the scent. The chicken guy does more than chicken. He also has ribs, ham, and rabbits.

We decided on Saturday, planning ahead to Sunday, that we'd get a rabbit with some potatoes. I dreamt about the potatoes. (Have I told you about the potatoes around here? Light, smooth-skinned, waxy on the inside. A little yellow in the flesh. Kind of like Yukon Gold, but much creamier in texture and sweeter in flavor. I'm told they're local. Susan, who doesn't normally like potatoes, has become a fan.)

But I digress. The way it works with the rabbits is that you tell the Chicken Man that you want one, he puts it on the spit, and you come back 40 minutes later to claim it. Which we did. Hurrying back, laying it all out, and bustling up the two precarious flights of stairs to the deck. The rabbit was simply prepared, simply cooked, and simply delicious. Perfectly done. Perfectly seasoned. The potatoes were everything I had hoped for and more. I think we added a little salad, but really, it was all about the rabbit.

Then, just yesterday, we ventured to the small city of Pertuis by bus, for the fairly large market there.  I'd seen a stall that sold paella the first time we'd been there, and determined to get some to bring home this time.  Mussels, clams, shrimp, other unidentified seafood.  I bought the version without the rice, but with the amazing saffron-scented broth.  Once the seafood was gone, the broth kept on giving as I dipped piece after piece of bread in.  And it kept giving a couple of days later when I reheated the broth to go with a simple dinner.

 When you do the same thing every day, all day, you can get pretty good at it, as evidenced by the Paella Madam and the Chicken guy.

A little photography

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While in Paris, we had the pleasure of being hosted by an old friend of Susan, named Richard.  We were grateful for a place to stay, and a place to be around some real people, rather than the hotels we'd gotten used to.  And home cooked meals and tour of the Paris food market, too! 

Anyway, I got it into my head that it would be fun to do some portraits, and Richard was a willing participant, especially when I told him he could play guitar while we photographed.  Fortunately, Richard's Paris apartment had nice big windows that let in soft light -- perfect for portraits.  It was a nice break from the street shooting and tourist subjects I'd been shooting.

The hardest part, of course, was editing.  A bunch are on the Flickr stream.  And my six favorites are in the Tabblo , part of which is shown above. Click the picture.

I haven't done a whole lot of portrait work, and this was fun. So thanks Richard for being a willing subject.

Serendipity

After a month of sightseeing the tourist meccas of Europe, we've settled down in Ansouis, a little village of about 1,100 people in Provence, in the Luberon (just south of the actual mountains, but inside the protected park).  I've been here before. Five years ago I attended a photo workshop here run by Andrew Squires and had a great time. Pictures of that previous journey were terrific (at least I had fun taking them, and being in Provence, and I had fond memories.

Although we started our time here with a car, we decided to try a slower lifestyle without one for awhile. After a few days of taking in the popular tourist destinations around here (watch the Flickr stream for photos) we needed to dump the car in the center of Aix-en-Provence. Armed with a little photocopied map provided by the car rental agent, we sallied forth, confident we could find our way easily. The signage is great around here.  Wayfinding from town to town clearly marked at each junction (usually a well-designed roundabout). Aix-en-Provence turned out to be more challenging, though, since there didn't seem to be ANY street signs. I drove and Susan navigated. My role was to shout out "signs coming up!" and Susan tried to figure out where we were by the few clues that correlated the map with what we saw whizzing by. Then, shout out the appropriate instruction,  After having done this through Germany, Austria and Hungary, we found that whomever was driving just had to trust the navigator and go with the directions, without, thinking, military style.  Mistakes would be made, for sure, but at least we avoided truly irresponsible driving behavior.

Fortunately, there were several roundabouts, the beauty of which is the ability to circle round and round until you figure out where you want to go. The downside of this approach, however, is that it makes the navigator too dizzy to navigate. We'd wandered around, taken a few turns on pure hunches, and finally got to the point where we were sure we were utterly lost. Susan shouted "pull over here...we need to figure out where we are!!!".  So, I pulled over onto a little frontage road. Looked up. And there, a half-block ahead of us, was the welcoming red of the Avis sign. If we had waited until we'd seen the sign, we would not have been able to get on the frontage road, would have had to find some way to double back among the cacophony of one-way streets, and would have had another half hour of confusion.

We looked at each other. Burst out laughing. And gave thanks with a long French kiss. Of course.  Serendipity has been our companion on this journey, and we enjoy giving thanks.

Serendipity visited in the kitchen last night, as well.

Having eaten at restaurants for the last month, we're now thrilled to have a kitchen.  We've been stocking up at the local markets and at the Hyper-U.  I found some flageolets -- little greenish/white dried beans that I'd always wanted to try, and now that I was in France, some French beans were in order.  We found some unidentified greens (seemed to be softer than bok-choy, but stiffer than swiss chard).  And I had seen a recipe for beans and chard on 101 Cookbooks recently for something similar so I thought I'd give it a go.  I ventured pretty far afield from Heidi's original, but hers was pretty far afield from her own source.

Beans were cooked in the afternoon, and then pan-fried till a little brown. Since the beans were green, and the greens were green, I'd add some color with diced carrots.  And a little celery root for flavor.   I was going to add garlic, but the garlic here in the rented house had been here all winter, and was only a papery shell, so I was short on flavoring, so i thought I'd add some diced chorizo that we picked up at the market.  But this chorizo was mild compared to what I get at home, so it didn't add that much zing.  I added a little harissa and some worcestershire sauce at the end, hoping to salvage the effort, but it was still blah.

It was a disappointing meal, and I was glum.  The fact that is was nutritious was not much consolation.  I don't know where the thought came from, but serendipity was its name.  There was a little bottle of vinegar with herbs-de-provence sitting on the counter.  What about a splash or two?  I'm often astounded by how much flavor a few splashes of vinegar will pack.  It was the perfect final touch, bringing all the flavors together and adding the just enough tartness to wake up my mouth.

Serendipity.

On Language

At 52 I'm old enough to be allowed a few regrets.  One is not having learned languages while I was younger.  (The other is not having learned music.)

When growing up, my parents spoke a mixture of English and German to each other and to others of their mostly German-Jewish immigrants and friends.  And they particularly spoke German when they didn't want me to understand anything.  As a result, I picked up, through osmosis, some basic German, but never really spoke it, and they never really encouraged me to speak.

I went to a Yeshiva for middle school, so I learned Hebrew, and when I got to high school, the choices were Spanish and French (of course), Russian (hey, the Cold War was still on) and Hebrew.  Hebrew?  Well, the Bronx High School of Science had a lot of Jewish students, and I guess the parents had some pull, so Hebrew was offered.  If they had offered German, I would have taken it, but since I already knew some Hebrew, I opted for the easy route, and went with another four years of Hebrew.  I can't say I learned a whole lot, but it did me OK when I had a project in Israel about ten years ago.  But other than that, not a whole lot of value.  I did take a semester of beginning German in college, which was of more value than I ever thought it would be.

We chose to get in and out of central Europe via Frankfurt, since we hadn't quite known what our plan would be, and Frankfurt was, well, central.  Most people spoke a little English, but it was fun trying to communicate in German.  I was surprised and pleased at how much I could say, and that I could make myself understood in kindergarten sort of way.  I'm sure a kindergartner knows more German than I do, but I could ask for directions, figure out a menu (sometimes), joke around a little.  I neglected to learn the trick of asking people to speak a little slower, and often used the deer in the headlights face when I had no clue of what someone said to me.  But I managed to buy a toll pass at the Austrian/Hungarian border when the toll attendant did not speak English, but did speak "a little" German.

Bits and pieces of things learned 30 and 40 years ago came to the surface so that I could communicate with someone.  Best of all was carrying out a conversation with my father's schoolmate (90+ years old) where she spoke no English.  We spent about 45 minutes together and between my little German, her vast patience, and lots of hand gestures, we managed to understand each other.  Oh, and it turned out she did speak a little French, so Susan and she had a splendid time.

So, with us about to spend about five weeks in Provence, lack of French is frustrating.  Fortunately, Susan is fluent and easily charms everyone we meet with her seemingly effortless French sense of humor.  While I try to pick up a word or two.  I had Susan in stitches tonight at dinner recounting my adventure at the boulangerie (bakery) asking for UN PAIN COMPLETE (one loaf of whole wheat bread), which I pronounced UN PAAA COMPLET, instead of Uuuuuuu paaaaa complaaaaaa, or some such nasal intonation that sounds nothing like the way it looks. 

Interestingly, as facile as Susan is with French, she has struggled similarly with German pronunciations, finding everything impossibly guttural.  German was much more natural for me, having heard it for years (and that semester of German taught me something!)

I had thought I might try to learn some on our travels, but truly, we did not have enough down time.  I'm hoping that our five weeks in one place in Provence provides the opportunity to make the effort.  And by my posting it here in my blog, at least some a little incentive to make good on that.

On Tipping

I've long been frustrated by the idea of tipping.  Why should the compensation of waiters, bellhops and others in the service industry be dependent on the goodwill (or not) of their customers?  If a waiter provides great service in the hope of getting a good tip, but the customer is in a bad mood, or cheap, or mean, that good service goes unrecognized, and the server is basically screwed.  Tipping allows restaurants to pay their employees a pittance, and saddles the employees with the risk of not getting paid.  Maintaining good service should be the responsibility of management.  If I get bad service, I won't come back to the restaurant.  If I get good service, and good food, I will.  Ensuring that these happen is management's responsibility.

So it was with great joy that I discovered in Italy that there is no tipping.  The price on the menu is the price you pay.  Tax and tip included.  How simple.  Of course, it took me a few days to figure this out, and I was happily leaving little tips (I knew tipping was "less" in Europe).  Until we shared a meal with some Norwegians and Dutch, who clearly left no tip. 

I continued this behavior through Budapest and Austria.  Getting to Germany, I found that there's generally no tipping, except for extraordinary service.  And then, it's only a euro or two.  And the way you tip is odd.  The waiter brings over the bill, and stands there waiting to be paid.  Let's say the bill is 48 euros.  You would tell them, to their face to make it 50.  Or 52.  Or whatever. Or simply round up to the nearest euro or 5 euros.   And they'd make the change accordingly.  I figured this out on the last day after being tutored by our accidental dinner companions from Berlin.  Their attitude was you could tip "a little" for very good service, but that if you weren't planning to go back, then you didn't need to tip at all.  That seemed a little unfair, so we left a little.

Paris seemed to be a mix.  Tax was always included, and sometimes a "service charge" of 10-15 percent was also included (but included in the menu price, and simply called out specifically on the bill).  Why you would have a separate "service charge" at a restaurant, where having a waiter serve you is clearly part of the experience is another annoyance.  Extra good service warranted a little more.  If service was not included, I guess you're supposed to tip about 10 percent, but we didn't run into that situation.

Given the differences from place to place in Europe, I would think the waiters in Paris get forgotten a lot.  I'd argue for consistency, and that consistency would be -- the price on the menu is what you pay.  Let the restaurant owner pay his staff the right amount to keep them happy, and let them manage their employees so that they provide excellent service.

I'm going to have a hard time coming back to the States where 15-20 percent is expected.

Home runs are hard to predict

We've wandered from town to town.  Whatever the differences between places, there are a few constants.  We need to figure out where things are.  How to get around.  What we want to see.  How to use the money.  What the tipping customs are.  Sleep.  And eat.

I love finding good food.  But it can be daunting.  I'm constantly on the lookout for fabulous meals, but the reality is that most of them have been pretty mediocre.  (We haven't been to France yet, however!)  I've already mentioned the lack of variety in Italy.  Germany, Hugary and Austria have had more diversity, but we've consistently tried to find authentic cuisine that's spectacular.  Actually, that's been more of my mission than Susan's but she enjoys great food too.  TripAdvisor and other web resources can be of some help, but that takes time and effort, and a lot of times we just find ourselves out and about, hungry and tired, and just have to pick.

There have been good meals, to be sure, but nothing in the memorable category.  Until last night, in an utterly unexpected place.  This part of our journey, the driving part, was to have lasted a week and taken us to Budapest, Vienna, and Prague.  Cost and logistics considerations caused us to fly from Venice to Frankfurt (Hahn airport, 100 km west of Frankfurt) and drive to Budapest, working our way back to Frankfurt where we would rail to Paris.  With two days in Budapest, and then a day in Vienna, we realized we'd bitten off more than we could chew, so we discarded the Prague piece to spend an extra day in Vienna.  Since Vienna-Frankfurt was going to be more than 6 hours, we decided to break it up and stay in a well-preserved city called Regensburg.

The Hottentotten Inn, an inexpensive, African-themed hotel located in the parking lot of a car repair yard, a bit outside the city walls was run by a crusty older man and his wife who had lived in Africa for seven years.  He recommended the Braueri Kneitinger, a Bavarian brewery/eatery that had been in the same family since the 1860s.  It was late Saturday afternoon, and stepped into the crowded beer hall where much of the crowd was intent on the fusbol.  The host found us a table that we shared with a friendly retired couple from Berlin, who were nice enough to help us interpret the menu.  Susan was intent on sausages, this being Bavaria and all.  I figured I'd have sausages too, until the Berlin couple mentioned the Schweishaxn, a Bavarian specialty, served with Kartoffelknödel and krautsalat.  Schweishaxn is a braised pork shank with skin on, where the skin crisps up. Kartoffelknödel are a mixture of cooked and raw potatoes, formed into a ball a little smaller than a tennis ball.  These are served on the plate with a rich brown gravy, which I'd guess is made from the pan drippings and onions.  The pork was tender on the inside, crisp on the outside.  Salty, but not overwhelmingly so, with a deep savory flavor that was easy to, well, savor.  The potato balls were like enormous gnocchi, but not with that starchy texture -- they went down smoothly and were perfect for soaking up the gravy.  The cabbage salad was a simple, plain counterpoint.  And the house-brewed beer was terrific.  We tried two of the heavier ones, the bock (17% alcohol) and the dunkel (12%) were smooth, rich, but not too heavy or overwhelming.  They stood up well to the heavier meat.

As I was enjoying this meal, I realized that a home run had snuck up on me.  The meal was fantastic.  Our table companions were friendly and engaging, telling stories of traveling central and northern Europe in their motor home.  And we seemed to be among as many Regensburgians as tourists.  To top it off, the meal was inexpensive.

I'm writing this on the train from Frankfurt to Paris, where I have high expectations for the food -- hoping for the best!

Another Planet

Rome was spectacular with its antiquities tucked among the modern.  Florence had ridiculous displays of opulence by people that called themselves "the Magnificent".  But Venice is another planet altogether.  Venice reminds me of a science fiction story where one basic element of life that we all take for granted is changed, and as a result everything else changes.  In Venice, it's the canals.  On the 180 islands that comprise Venice, you get around by foot or by boat.  Period.  No cars.  No trucks.  No firetrucks.  No wheeled ambulances.  Not even any "pedestrian only" zones as there's no way for cars to get there.

Everything's different without the cars.  Goods are brought in on little boats, and then hauled by hand on special carts with an extra set of wheels used to pivot up and down the steps on one pont (bridge) after another .  The UPS truck is a boat.  The mail comes by boat and then by foot.  The pace is slower as a result.  No dodging cars or waiting for traffic lights to change.  Some dodging of tourists and tour groups, but nothing too stressful.  The water buses go everywhere and frequently (though they are expensive). 

It's mystical.  Surreal.  While we were there, the sun filtered through a light haze, causing the distant church domes and bell towers (of which there were no shortage) to appear as if shot through a soft filter in a movie.  The soft focus of the place worked well with the soft color palette on all the buildings, adding to the effect.   I half expected to see two or three moons appear on the horizon, as if this were a different planet.

An Unchanging Place

Rome, Florence, Venice.  A typical tourist itinerary with a few days in each.  Clearly not enough to understand much about these places.  Especially when we've spent most of our time seeing the sights, and most of the people we see are foreigners, like ourselves.  But everything is run by the Italians -- or, as they may prefer -- by the Romans, Firenzians, and Venetians.  You get the sense that this society has been built up over several thousand years, including years when the Romans ruled the known world, the Firenzians paid for the Renaissance, and the Venetians created the gateway between east and west.  It's worked for all this time, so why should any ideas from the outside be any better?

It's easy to come from the U.S. and ridicule these entrenched ways.  We've done a lot of that, all while appreciating the culture that has resulted.  Try to imagine the people that lived amongst the ruins in Rome.  The emperors, senators, merchants, craftsman, servants and slaves.  The human and natural resources used to create the edifices that we see the remnants of today.  How were these used, and what were people's lives like?  If you wonder about this long enough, and do the research, I suppose you end up making one of those made-for-TV re-creations, which are probably 20 or 30 percent correct, but at least provide some exploration into life in those times.

Although life and society has progressed since then, in many ways it has not.  All the restaurants in Rome had the same menu.  In Florence, their own, and in Venice other variations.  No outside influences intrude.  No French.  No Spanish.  An occasional kebab.  And somehow, Chinese food has found a foothold, though we weren't brave enough to try.  Florence had three MacDonalds, one at the Duomo, and we definitely weren't brave enough to try that.  No experimental cuisine of any kind.  At all.  Maybe we're looking in the wrong places, but there's nothing that cried out for experimentation.  Just like in the 14th and 15th centuries -- there were two topics for paintings -- Madonna and Child, and Jesus on the Cross.  Room after room.  Church after church.  All in similar style that evolved ever so slowly through the ages.

Some things do change.  All the hotels we stayed in had wifi (pronounced wee-fee).  Few people took advantage of it.  We did not see a single laptop in a cafe or restaurant.  We aren't sure what the chicken or the egg is -- do people not have laptops, so the cafes don't provide wee-fee, or do the cafes not have wee-fee so people don't get laptops?


We didn't see much in the way of nightlife, but maybe we weren't looking in the right places.  There were few notices of popular concerts or bars with music.  We didn't see many bars at all.  Actually, we saw lots of bars but they were snack bars.  The snack bars served sandwiches, pizza, and beer/wine/liquor.  But not the kind of bar packed with people listening to loud music that you might expect. 

The slowly evolving nature of the place reminds me of Michael Pollan's writings about cuisine.  With cuisine, people have found that eating particular foods in particular order in particular ways led to healthy lives.  So, everyone eats the same thing.  And lunch doesn't start till 12:15, and can't be served after 2:00.  Dinner starts at 7:30, not earlier.  In the tourist zones, this is changing, and there's more flexibility, but this is how it is.

In the U.S., we have a hodgepodge of cultures, and there are no rules.  We relish our freedom and our choices.  But when we have no rules, it's easy to make poor choices, and as a result so many people have chosen unhealthy diets that lead to unhealthy lives.  Maybe after some more decades of experimentation our own society will settle on a cuisine that works for us, after healthful outcomes are demonstrated.

Perhaps there's a market for a Thai restaurant?

We're done with Italian part of the journey, but I've got one more post from there written but still to be posted.  In the meantime, here are the photos from Rome, Florence, Venice.

An Honest Mistake?

It's easy to feel vulnerable as a tourist.  Unless you know the language perfectly, and walk around town without your safety blanket -- day pack, camera, etc, you stick out like  a sore thumb.   This is especially true with my unfortunate choice of a bright blue pack with Eddie Bauer scrawled across the top.  In any case, the places we were going were frequented by tourists, even when we tried our hardest to blend in.  So, looking around, everyone eating at restaurants were tourists.  This should not be surprising, because there were 20 or 30 hotels within a few blocks.

We had found a pleasant, inexpensive little pizzeria-trattoria on our first day, and were treated well by the friendly waiter with the good sense of humor.  The next night we wanted to try the restaurant recommended by the hotel staff.  It was a bit pricier, and looked a little more refined.  Although we showed up at the usual dinner hour of 7:30, we were turned away because we didn't have a reservation. Reservation -- what a concept!  So we slinked back across the street to the simple place that treated us well the first time. 

Our meal was good, and we were happy.  The waiter seemed a little confused a few times about what we had ordered, but all turned out well in the end.  Upon asking for the conto -- the bill, the waiter proceeded to tally up the bill, scrawling a few unintelligible characters on a pad of paper, with a clearly legible total at the bottom -- 41,50.  This seemed high to us, so we recalculated on our own, and came up with 36,50.  Upon challenging the amount, we all recalculated together and came up 34,50, which suited us even better.  The waiter was a kindly, yet harried older man.  Susan gave him the benefit of the doubt, but I wasn't so sure.  It's so easy to take advantage of tourists who don't know how things work.  It would be so easy to play this game and hope the charade goes unchallenged. 


I hate to do it, but it always pays to be on guard.  Fortunately, usually Susan or I are on guard while the other spaces out, so we're covered.  We go through periods of paranoia, and then trust, like when we leave our luggage in the hotel reception area for the day on our last day in Florence with no baggage tags or other identifiers, trusting that the sometimes friendly and sometimes surly desk staff won't let someone walk away with our bags.  I wonder if anyone ever asks for a luggage tag?

Shall we have Italian food tonight? Or, beware the Ides of March.

After all the preparation, and all the packing and repacking, thinking and rethinking about what to bring, we found ourselves sitting on a Lufthansa plane, winging our way to Frankfurt, for an ultimate connection to Rome. Every once in a while we'd look at each other and laugh, that we were actually doing this – going to Europe for ten weeks.

I love flying into European cities with an easy walk connection to an express train that goes right to the city center. Though this had been our plan all along, the prominent signs offering express bus service to the same exact spot for several euros less were enticing, until the company that had spent all that money for fancy signs totally forgot about us once we got out of baggage claim, and a tour bus operator wisely advised us that the best, fastest route was by train. Which made sense, because the train was packed. Gotta love public transportation in Europe.

We (well, Susan) had wisely chosen a hotel just two blocks from Termini, the main train station in Rome. Which meant that we were in our hotel mere minutes after arriving (with only a little confusion on our part about where the exit to the station really was, and therefore confusion about where the hotel was), and just around noon. I'd had a pretty good sleep on the Boston-Frankfurt flight, and felt ready to go. Susan barely slept, but she too was ready to go, so we put on or walking shoes and headed out the door to get the adventure underway.

Our introduction to Roman tourism was, of course, a church. A magnificent one at that. I hadn't even brought my camera with me. Then, some more walking, till we found the hordes of tourists frolicking at the Trevi Fountain. I always love the scene of people taking pictures of others in front of famous places (check out my visit to the Eiffel Tower five years ago). This was particularly eye-catching, was it was lit up at night.



Susan had also wisely bought a great little tourist guide for Rome – a series of six maps with “where to go” information on the outside that folds out to a larger map on the inside. Easy to read (big letters!) and easy to use. And it had a few restaurant listings, so we tried it out, and found a great place near the fountain, but tucked away so that it was reasonably priced and not overtly touristy. The deep fried artichoke and zucchini blossoms was terrific. I don't recall the rest, but suffice to say, it was Italian food.

It's all Italian food here. Not that I'm complaining. I like Italian food. And where else to get it but in Italy. Of course, I'm the one that never wants to get Italian food in Boston, because it's all over the place, and I can get it any time. And if I'm in another city, I reject Italian food because why would I get it in that city, when it's so good in Boston? As a result, even though I love Italian food, I almost never get it.

In Rome, there are three choices of food. Italian. Chinese. Kebabs. That's it. Oh, we saw a sign for one Indian restaurant, but didn't actually see the restaurant itself.

So, Italian food it is. There are three types of restaurants. Snack places that serve sandwiches, some of which look very good, and some of which look like airport fare. (Which isn't fair to the airport sandwiches we saw in Frankfurt, because those looked stupendous, and were not very expensive). Then, there's the pizzerias and pizzeria/spaghetti restaurants. Intended for quick meals, though some of these had full menus. Then, there's the real restaurants. In all cases, they all seemed to have similar menus.

As a result, it's pretty easy to choose where to go. We look at a few places and pick one that has reasonable prices and seems to be a happy place. This makes Susan happy, because she doesn't have to put up with my need to find the best meal in town at the best price.

Churches, sculptures, ruins. All larger than life. Unbelievable really. Trying to imagine society of several thousand years ago, so different, and in some ways so much the same as it is today. Lavishness. Poverty. The gruesome power of the powerful over the weak. Imagining how Rome took over all of Europe, parts of Asia and northern Africa, and how that translated into the relics we walked among. More to come, and see the Rome pictures.

Life Reduced to Three Bags

Last month was practice. Today (well, today three days ago) began the real thing.  The next ten weeks will be a combination of vagabonding around Europe and retreating in Provence.  Our road trip to Quebec – Saratoga - Oneonta and our sun trip to Saint Lucia gave us a sense of what we'd need.  The return through New York (plus Saratoga for Susan) – Northampton – Woburn allowed us to refine the essential contents of our lives to one suitcase of 50 pounds or less and two carry ons.

We'll be wearing these clothes and using this gear for the next ten weeks, so we were careful about our choices.  I ditched the all-purpose sport jacket that had been so carefully folded up in dry cleaner plastic for the last month, never used.  I really needed a light jacket though, and found a nice black microfiber one at Kohls, just up the street from our base of operations, the Red Roof Inn in Woburn.  With our house rented out, we camped out at the Red Roof Inn in Woburn, which became our base for organizing, reorganizing, packing, repacking, shopping, and taking care of last minute business.  This turned out to be a great spot, as the DSW shoe store, TJ Maxx, and Kohls were all nearby.

Also discarded was the heavy black work shirt that I'd been wearing over a parade of T shirts for the last few weeks (when not in St. Lucia).  Lighter button down shirts would be more versatile as the weather warmed.  New socks were needed.  And two new pairs of shoes – one all purpose black Rockports (Rockports are amazing) and one pair of simple open-toed no-back sandals that can double as slippers (and that I can wear with socks, like a real European).  It tried to replace my Merrel hiking shoes with a new pair, but they just didn't fit quite right and I took them back.  Merrels are also amazing, but the chemistry just wasn't there this time.  I was dejected, but I'll make do with the old Merrels.

I found that my repertoire of button down shirts was dark.  It was going to be spring for heavens sake, so I went back the closet and found the blue and white striped shirt that I wore almost every day the last time I was in Provence.  And found another all-purpose utility shirt from Old Navy in the palette of white.

Down to the wire, I had to come to terms with the camera gear.  I was pretty sure I wanted to replace my three-lens repertoire of the 18-55 and 55-250 Canon kit lenses with a single 18-200 zoom, but I'd been reading that the longer zoom was heavy.  I was sure I'd want to carry the 50 mm prime lens – I'd come to love that lens for its simplicity and huge aperture (1.4!).  I'd been dragging my manual Vivitar flash and wireless triggers with me over the whole trip, and hadn't used them once.  And I hadn't been dragging a min-tripod, but thought I'd regret it if I didn't – photography at night can be a revelation.  Finally, I was unhappy with my carrying system – camera and lenses tossed into a school backpack seemed like a recipe for disaster.

So off I went to Hunt Photo in Melrose, to check out the potential for a new lens and was treated to a good half hour of advice from Don about all of these issues.  I talked myself out of the new lens.  It was heavy.  And almost $700.  So I bought lens hoods for my two zooms.  Don talked me into the tripod instead of the flash, if I had to choose between them, and I agreed, but I ended up throwing in my Canon 380EX flash and pillow diffuser too.  Don's best advice was about carrying gear.  I really didn't want to buy a new bag, and I didn't think a new bag would do the trick anyway.  Don suggested that I probably had photo bag inserts lying around that I could fashion into some sort of protective system.  Or, buy some foam at a craft supply store to put in the bottom of my bag to cushion it.  I was all set to buy some foam, even traipsing around to Lowes trying to find some.  Fortunately, though, I didn't, and while rummaging in the basement of the house, found an insert system from the urban camera bag that I no longer used (and which Eleanor permanently borrowed to use as a purse).  It had three slots of perfect size – one for the camera, and one for each of my lenses.  It cradles the gear snugly and fits perfectly into my day pack.  And there's still plenty of room in the daypack for a jacket, food, guidebooks, whatever.  This is a much more satisfactory solution than the Lowepro backpack I have which has a great camera carrying section but very small section for the rest of my stuff.  Big thank you to Don for spending time with me to clarify what I'd need.

By the time I've posted this we've been in Rome for a couple of days.  Internet connections not as convenient as in the States, plus....there's lots to do!  Stay tuned for the Roman experience...

Time and Perspective

Ten days in St. Lucia and no time to write. Relaxing and sightseeing took up too much energy. Now, our bags are packed and we're ready to go. I can write about St. Lucia from with a little perspective.  (Check out all the St. Lucia Pictures)

We were based on Moule a Chique, a hilly peninsula that is the south tip of the Island, in a 6-room guest house called Villa Caribbean Dream. Most of the all-inclusive resorts are on the west (Caribbean Sea) coast, at least a half-hour drive from here. Moule a Chique is part of the town of Vieux Fort, a small port city, where the main attraction for the few tourists that are here is Anse de Sable, a beach that draws kitesurfers and windsurfers from around the world (well -- primarily Europe and North America).

Vieux Fort is dominated by poverty. The center of town is run down, but the buildings hint at a more prosperous past. Shops carry clothing aimed at the local market, convenience goods, some food, beauty products and other essentials. The few restaurants are uninspired. Street vendors hawk sweet potatoes, ginger, bananas, cinnamon. The chinese restaurant was a surprise, but by the time we got there one evening, hoping for dinner, most of the food was gone, and what was left didn't look too appetizing.

Can you be a tourist in your hometown?

We wandered from Saratoga to Oneonta (NY) to visit Josh and Ruth (and brush up on our Trivial Pursuit skills).  Did you know that Ali McGraw almost got the female lead in Chinatown but didn't because she was married to the director and ran away with Steve McQueen?  Neither did I, but I amazed even myself with that correct answer, solved by the magic of long lost connections in my brain.  The Baby Guinnesses that Josh made were pretty good, too.



Then on to New York City for Saturday night. Susan found tickets to a show, and I snagged a sweet deal on a comfortable hotel in the Financial District called Club Quarters. The financial district was deserted for the weekend, but we were a brisk walk away from Greenwich Village, and could've done a 10 minute subway ride if we needed to.

Although I grew up in New York City, I never got to know lower Manhattan very well. And it's changed a lot since the early 70s. Now, when I return I'm a tourist.

We were in dire of a walk, as we'd spent a lot of time in the car. It was a couple of mile stroll from the Financial District to the Village. Not wanting to get lost, we headed straight up Broadway, but then noticed throngs of people packed into a couple of blocks of Canal Street. Vendors hawking their wares behind tables, and some wandering the streets with suitcases. The stores were packed as well. By the whispered offers of watches and other unknown items, most of this must be hot or contraband in some way. How this survives is an interesting sociological question.

Tired of this, we turned north on Greene Street, watching a stylishly dressed (as if for a night club, yet it was only 4 in the afternoon) young man and woman explode out of a minivan and start walking quickly up Greene Street. Upon noticing a police officer, they quickly changed direction and went the other way, out of sight. Susan and I looked each other, laughed, and starting pondering what story we had stumbled into the middle of.

Further up Greene Street, we hit store after store of high end furniture and home furnishings. Of things I can't imagine anyone would want in their homes. Things so stylish as to be ridiculous. A block from the raucous scene on Canal Street.

We learned a lesson about dinner, too. It was Saturday night. We were chilly. Tired. Hungry. And we had no plan. The place Susan had discovered in one of her archival food magazines that she had brought along (for purposes of extracting thef good recipes and tossing the rest) was still popular (though the magazine was from 2006) and promised a 2 hour wait. Out into the street we were left with choosing among the vast selection of restaurants in that part of Manhattan. It was Manhattan. I wanted a good meal. I wanted to be a bit choosy. A plain, red-sauce Italian place wasn't going to do. Another nearby Italian place seemed overpriced. And empty at 7:30 on Saturday night, which didn't seem like a good sign. (I always feel sorry for the restaurateurs that have empty restaurants. How can they change that? It's a vicious circle). Finally, we realized that we recognized the restaurant we were looking at. We were in the same part of SoHo that we had visited last year at about the same time. And there were several restaurants we had identified, yet didn't have time to visit. And one of them had room. So in we went. Had a decent, if not memorable meal. And were satisfied. A French bistro, presaging our upcoming trip.

The next day was a short visit with Mama in Riverdale, including a trip up to Epsteins to savor New York's finest deli food.



Finally, we descended upon Susan's sister and her family on Long Island to prepare for a morning departure to....St. Lucia!

Catch up -- Part 3 - Burlington to Saratoga in pictures

Let's finish up this catch up with some pictures. Breakfast at MacDonalds. This was the food, but I thought the shapes were more interesting.

It was cold. We checked out the lakeside (Lake Champlain) and got a good history lesson. Back in the day, the Lake was the main transportation link. These were happening places. Fought over in various wars. I think it was all downhill after the railroads and highways came through.

Coffee to warm up at Uncommon Ground. The local independent coffee shop directly across the Church Street pedestrian mall from Starbucks. Warm and welcoming, but we had to be quick to snag a seat.

The best meal of the day was in Vergennes, VT, which as Susan discovered is the smallest city in the state. Lunch at 3 Squares was a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately, I have no pictures for you. (Actually, I took some, but I'm not willing to share). The highlight of Vergennes was the shoe store. High end shoes from small manufacturers that I'd never heard of. The prices on the bottoms were all over $200. The salesman was dressed in a three-piece suit with black shirt, and was very proud of his shoes.

Middlebury. Home of Middlebury College. But also home to perhaps the greatest loaf of bread I'd ever tasted -- Otter Creek Bakery.

Did you know that John Deere got his start in Middlebury, Vermont?



Brandon Motor Lodge. A roadside motel run by a young couple with two little children including a newborn.  Simple, welcoming.  More than you'd expect from the basic look from the street.

Common Ground Bakery and Cafe in Cambridge, NY. Susan and I discovered this place about four years ago, before it even opened. The Twelve Tribes, a Christian communal living group had a festival in the park by the railroad tracks as we were driving through Cambridge. Terrific food. A spectacular tour bus with handcrafted woodwork inside. Some people call them a cult. The women all wear simple cotton dresses and the men all have short bobbed pony tails. The food is wholesome and tasty. The people are always gentle and calm. It's nice to have a place in Cambridge, NY that you can look forward to eating at. Beware though -- their closed on Saturday for sabbath. And Sunday too.





More Common Ground Pics here.

The final bit of drive to Saratoga Springs was treacherous. 2-4" of snow may not seem like much, but I think the state and the towns were preserving their budget. It was slippery, especially in Susan's little Prius.