Moving & Eating

New Blog-tastic Creations

2011-06-08T15:16:00.001-07:00

For this of you who have been patiently waiting for more from Moving & Eating...might I suggest my newest blog: Think-Make-Think I hope you enjoy it!

http://think-make-think.blogspot.com/?m=1

xo,
Jenny

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Last Hurrah

2010-08-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

Here I sit in Las Vegas, pondering the big gamble I'm about to make. Now before you start getting worried about my thin wallet and slot machine addiction, just know that I'm referring to life changes, not going all in on number 17. Last Friday I accepted a fundraising job in San Francisco and I start a week from today. So I've taken to pondering (otherwise known as obsessive second-guessing) the large gamble that I'm about to make: namely, that choosing stability, routine and responsibility and giving up my wandering ways is what I need right now. But it's really too late for rumination; I've already got everything riding on this bet.

Partly to celebrate and partly to get all of my yah-yahs out before next week, Elly and I have embarked on another grand adventure: a week long tour of the West. We met in San Luis Obispo for a whirlwind round of visits with some friends then popped down to Orange County on the way to Las Vegas. Today we're off to Bishop, high up in the Sierras, then down to the American River in the heart of gold country, perhaps a stop in Sonoma and then back to San Francisco just in time to complete my transformation back into a young professional. In typical style, we hatched this plan on Saturday morning over coffee, writing all the possible destinations on little sheets of paper and rearranging them until the puzzle pieces formed a sufficiently ambitious and adventurous picture.

So here I sit in Las Vegas, in the midst of the adventure I'll need to keep me sated during the daily nine to five I've signed up for, hoping it will scratch my wandering itch long enough for me to settle into the new routine.

More photos, disasters and food coming soon!

Location:Las Vegas

"Staying & Eating" Doesn't Quite Have the Same Ring....

2010-08-09T13:41:00.000-07:00

One of my former boyfriends had a painting in his living room of a cockroach and the words "MOVING, KEEPING STRONG." I think about that canvas all the time, especially since I took off last July to do a long spell of traveling. Somehow, those words perfectly capture the sentiment that drove me on this crazy trek around the globe in the first place. Somewhere in my DNA is a drive to go every time my sanity is threatened...a primal nomadic instinct...a strong proclivity for the "flight" side of "fight or flight"...an ear that's carefully attuned to the call of my wild self's need for escape. Sadly, this is a characteristic that puts me solidly in the company of gypsies, vagabonds and aging hipsters with a fear of commitment, none of which are particularly romantic figures.

When I'm not in one of my moving phases, I feel a very feminine pull to put down some roots, make a cozy home, cultivate community and stay put. But then the wind changes direction and all those roots get pulled clean up and I'm off again. Like clockwork, this happens every couple of years. It is a call that I cannot deny and I never see it coming until it's there and all I know is that I need to leave, NOW. So that's what I did for the last year, by far my longest moving phase to date. And now I'm back in California, looking for a job in San Francisco, dreaming of my own apartment and garden, salivating over the perfect couch and my own little kitchen. I'm having an existential crisis about this blog. Not that there aren't lots of great food adventures to be had in northern California, but "Staying & Eating" isn't quite as glamorous. And so, the eternal question: to blog or not to blog.

Oh My Gosh, It's Summer in Ohio

2010-07-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

Here are a few of my favorite things about Ohio in the summertime:

lightning bugs

warm rain
heat lightning

water skiing

sweet corn

seasonal ice cream stands

coney dogs

watermelon

I came to Ohio last week to visit the family in Canton and got immersed in the soupy air and the Mid-West hospitality; welcome to the land where soda is 'pop,' a visit lasts as long as a pot of coffee and the mall is town square. It was wonderful to sit around the table with my peeps and hear the same stories I've been hearing since I can remember, fall back into my native accent and be surrounded by the familiar laughs of my aunts, uncles and cousins. If I had to pick two things that have always defined my family, it would be these:

We have legendary stories
We are Italian-American

And I was able to re-visit two of my favorite restaurants from my childhood. The first is my all-time favorite ice cream parlor, Milk n' Honey. I can remember walking in as a child and being amazed at the long shelves of chocolates and candy and the seemingly endless list of ice cream flavors. Everything here is hand made, from the daily soups and sandwiches to the sweets and treats. I ordered the club sandwich and a grasshopper sundae (homemade mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream), both nostalgic favorites. My mom and I sat in the back room, where hung on up on the wall is half of a red MGB; according to family lore, this exact car belonged to my father when he was in college...he sold it to a young man who completely totaled only half of the car, precisely the half not hanging on the wall. I'm not sure that this story has ever been confirmed, but it's these kind of tales that make me feel connected to my hometown by a vast network of tiny threads.

The second restaurant was Papa Bear's. Again, I have been coming here for as long as I can remember. My mother was a waitress here. Every family celebration that I can remember has taken place at this restaurant. I can't tell you how many time my cousins and I have posed for photos with the taxidermied bear in the lobby. As far as my taste buds are concerned, this is the ideal when it comes to spaghetti with meat sauce. I have eaten here for so long, I can't even tell you if it's good; all I can tell you is that I like it. My mom and I ordered our favorites: crispy pepperoni bread with marinara sauce, wedding soup with meatballs and chicken, a side of angel hair with hot Italian sausage. This will probably always be my comfort food. I was a little disappointed to see that they were renovating; since I can remember there has always been the same 1980's floral wallpaper with miniature nude sculptures recessed in little wall-cubbies, the same black lacquered chairs with mauve cushions, the same casino-style carpeting. I just hope they always keep the bear.

Moving & Eating....Literally

2010-07-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

I arrived in NYC last week and would love to report that I'm being a fabulous international playgirl....hitting all the hippest summer spots, eating exotic street food everyday, uncovering the fabulous underbelly of the city and bringing it to you in this blog as a witty gift. But I'm tired and there's work to be done, so I've done none of that. What I have been doing is helping my sister and Jess move into their lovely new apartment in Brooklyn and sending off tons of job applications. And I've been able to fit in a little bit of cheap and fabulous food here and there.

I never thought I'd say this, but the day we went to IKEA was fabulous. Not because IKEA is so special, but because it is in Red Hook. This little neighborhood is right across from Governors Island in Brooklyn and formerly was an industrial and pretty underdeveloped place. These days it's pretty hopping. One of the highlights for me was the Red Hook Community Farm. It sits on 2.5 acre concrete lot in the middle of an industrial/residential neighborhood. They just put about a foot of dirt right on top of the concrete and started farming. It really doesn't look like much, but they have a CSA program for the neighborhood, weekly farmers' markets and youth education programs. They make quite a bit impact on their community with only two and a half acres of fenced concrete.

Another great part about the neighborhood is the fabulous street food by the ballpark. Every kind of Central and South American food you could want awaits you here: elote, papusas, sopas, horchata....it was a dream come true after having (mostly happily) eaten bread and cheese for almost three months.

Some other quick food highlights include:

The great street food at the Brooklyn Flea. Manchego fritters and kim chee hot dogs are a wonderful breakfast.

BLT Burger in the West Village. Any time you can have Maker's Mark in your chocolate milk shake is a good one.

Jacques Torres wicked frozen hot chocolate. I have one every day that I'm in NYC without fail. Don't ask how it's possible to have something cold and hot at the same time. Just drink it...you'll become obsessed.

The street hustlers on Kate's block who were trying to sell me a watermelon every time I walked out their front door. I don't know how they wound up with a truckload of fruit, but clearly they weren't very successful at getting rid of it all. A real shame.

I'm off to Ohio this afternoon for a quick visit and then back to California...sigh.

Versailles

2010-07-12T20:44:00.001-07:00

I f ever there were a tourist destination designed for Elly and me, it is Versailles. First, it's in Paris. Second, the entire thing is dipped in gold. Third, no matter how ridiculously we dress, we still blend in. We took our pilgrimage to the last home of Marie Antoinette very seriously, decking ourselves out in all the lace, bows, gaudy jewelry and hairspray we could muster. A nice fellow in the gift shop remarked, "Hey...you guys look like you...belong here..." How very observant, my little French friend...

We were feeling a little soggy after the hour and a half train ride from the city to the palace and then the hour and a half wait in line to enter the palace (and we'd even bought our tickets ahead of time!), but we really perked up when we saw those shiny golden gates and the huge gardens spreading out as far as you could see.

I know you can't see it, but on that building, at the entrance of the palace is the inscription "Tout la gloire de la France," or "All the glory of France."

Word.

Of course we were interested in the extravagant last queen of France, Madame Marie-Antoinette. We toured her private chambers (lavish and amazing), looked at portraits of her and the last royal family and bought some of her personal recipe perfume from the gift shop. Don't misinterpret my zeal for this ridiculous monarch...I am all about power for the people, the republic and revolution. But I think we can all agree, that woman had some fabulously lavish style and it deserves some props. Devotion to beauty is worthy of admiration. That said, I probably would have voted to chopped off her head too.

Some fun facts about Versailles:

There are 800 hectares of gardens. That's over 3 square miles of perfectly manicured vegetation.
The Grand Canal runs from the back of the palace through the length of the garden and was used for yacht parties for the kings and their courts.
The city of Versailles and the palace grounds are bigger than the entire island of Manhattan.
The palace itself has 700 rooms, 2000 windows and 1250 fireplaces and can house 5000 people.
Marie-Antoinette was wearing purple shoes when she was executed.

My absolute favorite part of the tour was the hamlet at the Petit Trianon. Versailles is so big that there is a train you can take to the outlying buildings on the grounds. There of course is the huge palace, but there are also two "country houses:" the Grand Trianon (residence of Queen Marie-Therese) and the Petit Trianon (residence of Marie-Antoinette). This last queen had a real flair for the theatrical and so she decided to build her own little rustic village (le Hameau) just off her country villa. The story is that she was tired of all the fluff and formality of being queen so she built a place where she could pretend to be a milkmaid. It has little canals, tiny backyard gardens, sheep, chickens, miniature bridges and cottages. It feels like Disneyland's version of the French countryside and I LOVED it. It was so cute, I could hardly contain myself from skipping around.

After all that walking and ooohing and aaaahing at the palace, we came back into Paris for dinner and decided to spend my last night in France at the Eiffel Tower. We sat right at the base, watching the elevators go up and down, the people wandering around, the vendors selling their miniature Eiffel Towers. Much to my delight, the tower lit up at midnight like a psychedelic Christmas tree and I did a little dance in honor of France. The next morning I shipped out for the States; it was a perfectly fitting way to end my French adventure.

Guest Blog!!!!

2010-07-12T20:40:00.001-07:00

Just wanted to put in a quick note that yours truly has been asked to guest blog for the fantastic site OneTravel.com (which has great deals on cheap tickets). I wrote a brief article about a driving tour of the Big Island. Check it out! There are lots of good articles about fantastic things to see and do all over this big, wide world.

Paris in a Day

2010-07-08T08:29:00.000-07:00

What is the best way to see Paris?

On a bike.

With lots of chocolate.

Darling sister had just been to Paris and recommended that I check out some of the chocolate shops there. She and Jess are perpetually more prepared than myself and Elly, so I took advantage of their organization and copied their chocolate route (with a few monumental additions). Paris is a surprisingly small city and most of the major sites are clustered in a few square kilometers around the Seine. So I took the liberty of planning the ultimate Paris-in-a-day tour....and now I will share my genius with all of you!

Elly and I biked down from our hotel in the Marais, across the pretty little bridge and over to the island in the Seine where Notre Dame sits. We knew we would be crunched for time, so we didn't go to the top of the tower, but just walked around and looking at those crazy gargoyles, scenes of temptation and torture...quite a way to kick off the day.

I think the cathedral must have really put the fear of the Lord into Elly, because right as we were riding away she crashed her bike...for no reason. We were chatting and biking...one minute I look back and there she is right behind me, the next minute, she's lying on the pavement. My eye quickly scanned for a pot hole, an opened car door, a gargoyle, an arch-angel...nothing. I don't know how, but Elly managed to have an immaculate collision. (Don't worry, Cherie, it was just a tiny scrape...) I promise that I won't turn that into a life metaphor, but I was thinking about it.

After we'd cleaned Elly up a bit, we cruised back over the Seine, past the Louvre and its huge gardens. Just one block north of the Tuileries on Rue St. Honore, the chocolatier Michel Cluizel sits in a totally fab shopping district with hip record stores, lingerie shops and independent clothing designers. We almost got sucked into spending the entire day on that street...it was seriously tempting. The chocolate shop itself was a wonder: a huge chocolate fountain at the entrance, beautiful truffles with gold leaf letters, delicious macarons, candied everything. The real winner was a chocolate champignon (don't worry there were no actual mushrooms involved). It had a buttery, chewy caramel center peppered with crunchy toffee, shaped like a cute little mushroom and covered in swirls of white and dark chocolate. Right down the street another amazing chocolatier, Jean-Paul Hevin. At this little gem of a shop we tried the most wonderful macarons I've ever had; Elly and I sampled a beautifully floral chocolate-bergamot, a spicy orange-ginger-chocolate and (my favorite) mango-coriander.

From there we cruised down the Avenue Champs de Elysees, through the plazas and parks, past the big, beautiful Louis Vuitton store with its four-story high windows and up to the Arc de Triomphe. It was a beautiful, breezy day and as we rolled down the streets in our sundresses, life was sweet. It was even sweeter when we found the theatrical chocolatier Patrick Roger. The shop was unlike any other I'd been in. No gold decorations, no little plates piled high with truffles. The long refrigerated cases were sleek, the bites and morsels each perfectly spaced in neat rows. On the counters were modernist chocolate sculptures. Even the chocolates themselves were presented in perfect, glossy simplicity. Elly and I tried a concoction that looked exactly like a green marble in a Tiffany's jewelry box. I felt a little strange about eating it. Until I ate it. Inside the smooth sugar shell was a layer of milk chocolate and then a perfect lime-caramel-cream. I was surprised that anything in this world could taste so perfect.

We rode down to the Eiffel Tower for a quick peak. It was stunning to see in person, and we decided to come back at night for the light show.

Next we biked through the pretty little neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Pres for the final stop of the epic chocolate tour, the uber-famous Michel Chaudun. We were delighted by the window full of tiny chocolate figurines: the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, babies, trees, pigs, deer...just to name a few. We went inside to try the specialty of the store, pave. These little morsels are cream truffles, one the simplest and best of all chocolate creations: cocoa powder, sugar and heavy cream. They are kept cold, so you get a little cool, silky bite of chocolate that spreads slowly through your mouth like a Southern woman sauntering into a room. Heavenly.

Later that evening when the sun was going down over the city we strolled down to the Tuileries Gardens again and rode the huge ferris wheel as the lights were all starting to twinkle on over city. Just as we reached the top the Eiffel Tower exploded in sparkling movement like a huge Christmas tree. I think I actually screamed in delight. I could see the Seine, the Opera House, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the hill of Montmartre, the lights of Notre Dame, like points on a Lite-Brite against the dark, warm night.

City of Light Brights

2010-07-04T10:55:00.000-07:00

I just arrived in Paris and am already getting really excited about all there is to see. I went first to the Louvres hoping they'd let me in during the last half hour, but no. Still, the glass pyramids were phenomenal! It is so huge inside, like a whole miniature city underground.

I walked around the Tuileries Gardens on the Seine and was delighted to find a little amusement park sitting right next to the Louvre and the big palace, complete with water rides, a giant automated King Kong and carnival food. France never ceases to amaze me.

Location:Rue de Turbigo,Paris,France

It's Quiet Here

2010-07-03T16:25:00.000-07:00

I came back to Chateau Brandeau as my last farm for my last days in France. Elly isn't here. Neither is Phil or Eddie of Ana, my new friends since I've arrived. In fact, it's a little too quiet, and as always there is lots of time in the vines...which means lots of time for contemplation. But contemplation makes it sound serene, meditative even. Sometimes it's that, but the most honest description would be a daily a panic attack.

I came to France for a lot of reasons, but if I were going to psycho-analyze myself, I'd say the main reason was that I still felt par-baked after my return from Hawaii. Like whatever had been forming there was close to done, but not quite there. I tried to come back to California and put it all together again last winter, but nothing was quite forming up inside of me and I had to admit that it just wasn't time yet. So I came to France for another adventure, thinking that this time I'd be ready to go back when it was all over. Only now I feel even less confident than before....I'm returning with an even skimpier game plan.

I wish that I could wrap it all up in a neat and tidy arc, or end with some witty and clever thought, but I can't. All I know is that today I leave for Paris for three days and then I fly to New York. After that I have no schedule, no job, no house and no fucking clue.

Saint-Emilion

2010-07-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

Because we simply had not yet exhausted our thirst for wine yet, Jess, Kate and I decided to do a little more wine adventuring around Bordeaux. On the way to their friends' wedding we took leisurely drive through the country and stopped at a tasting room in Graves on the way. We learned a little bit about the white wines from Aquitane and gawked at the hugest bottle of wine I've ever seen. I have no idea how huge it was, but it must have been at least twice the size of a magnum. I can't believe I haven't seen one in the states--it was totally supersized.

The next day I picked up the girls again after a long night of French-style partying (a five hour dinner followed by dancing til 6 am) and we took an hour's drive to the picturesque town of Saint-Emilion. The city evolved from the lonley hermitage of a monk, to a community of small religious community and lately to one of the most expensive wine regions in France. The grand cru vineyards that surround the stone village are perfectly manicured and pristine. We started with a tour of the old hermitage and moved on to the catacombs and finally the underground cathedral. According to our guide, the massive underground chapel was originally a natural cave, but thanks to the thousands of years of use as a stone quarry for the village, the space eventually became so vast that it was appropriated for religious use. It was might impressive. Especially when you returned above ground to see that sitting right on top of this massive hole in the ground is an equally massive bell tower made from a monolith...that's right, a steeple made from one giant hunk of stone, sitting on top of a huge underground dome. I tried not to think about it too hard, otherwise I might have started hyperventillating about the amount of time I had spent down there.

The town itself is quite charming, but definitely means business. All you can find are high end wine shops and fancy restaurants. So we went with the flow and took a self-guided tour of some extensive wine cellars and ducked into a couple of shops to taste the fancy wine.

For dinner we found a little restaurant overlooking the city and had some delicious tartine (the French version of bruschetta).

The next morning the ladies flew back to NYC and I returned to work in the vines at Brandeau. The countdown for my return to the States has begun...

An Amazing Weekend in Bordeaux

2010-07-03T06:23:00.000-07:00

Darling sister and sister-in-law came to France last week for a wedding and stayed for a bit in Bordeaux, which gave me the perfect excuse to spend some time in the beautiful old city. It's truly gorgeous, with little narrow alleyways, a lovely old cathedrals and tons and tons of little squares, each of them with their own unique vibe...a brand new universe every few blocks.

Kate & Jess arrived just in time for the Fete le Vin on the riverfront, a huge celebration of Bordelaise wines. We walked along the water, tasted as much of the many varieties as we could handle in the heat and eventually ended up cooling off a very smart water feature in the Place de la Bourse called the miroir d’eau. It is a black granite pool with about 1/2 inch of water, making it the perfect spot to cool your toes on a hot summer day. When we were just about dying of the heat and red wine, we came upon the square just teeming with kids and parents having the greatest time in the shallowest pool I have ever seen. There were toddlers splashing, little kids chasing each other and one enthusiastic young boy on a scooter cutting a truly narley wake in the pool. Then, all of the sudden, the water drained out and the entire pool turned into a mist machine. Collectively the entire square breathed a little sigh of relief and went quiet, suddenly shrouded, walking slowly and mysteriously across the square.

Other than the wine festival, there was a lot of good food to be had. Jess and I went a little nutty in a chocolate shop and ordered every flavor of macaroon our hearts desired...rose, lavender, noisette, pistachio. The pastries reminded me of miniature candy hamburgers, but much more delicious. Kate promptly squished them to smithereens in her bag, but the crumbs were still delicate and delicious.

I also got to try my first plate of escargot. The little buggers really appealed to my well-known obsession with circles. They were served in a round ceramic dish with six tiny circular indents that perfectly fit the shells. The special utensil for grabbing the little buggers was a circular tong to hold the shell while digging out the delectible morsel inside. Mine were steamed and then topped with butter and pesto...similar in texture to a perfectly cooked mussel; I can see why they're such a delicacy here. I don't think I will ever be able to look at those garden pests again without briefly entertaining culinary daydreams. Just as we were finishing our dinner that evening, we heard some commotion on the street and knew that the fireworks were beginning for the festival. As were wandered down the plaza, we could hear the big, full orchestra music and see the pink flashes in the sky.

The next day all three of us were feeling wilted from the heat and decided to take a little road trip to the Atlantic coast to cool off. We'd heard tales of La Dune du Pila, a huge sand dune a hour away, the largest in France. Supposedly the thing just kept growing and growing over the years, swallowing trees even hotels. Finally someone put a stop to the horror movie madness and they planted a whole forest of pine trees to tame the monstrous sand dune. Now its a tourist attraction with a HUGE set of stairs to the top...you know, accessible. So we climbed and climbed to the top and when we finally arrived we saw that the dune just kept going and going off into the distance. It was like being on the set of Laurence of Arabia. And the view of the calm little harbour below was fantastic and extremely enticing.

After stumbling to the bottom for a quick swim and then heroically climbing back up to the top in the mid-day heat, we were ready to reward ourselves with some sea-side snacking. For a while we drove around the tiny villages, looking in vain for a simple meal of ocean critters, and we finally happened upon the haven that is Papa's Restaurant. In the town of Arcachon was a Basque bistro serving up both fresh oysters and plates of moule-frites. We gladly partook of both and had the pleasure of being served by the fat, red-cheeked Papa himself. In between singing, shouting at his equally jolly wife and entertaining his five-year-old grandson with the radio on his Gold Wing, Papa kept us happy with bubbly drinks and plates of tasty mollusks. We arrived back in Bordeaux that evening in time for an ice cream cone and another round of festival fireworks.

P.S. This has absolutely nothing to do with the narrative, but I loved this photo and had to share it. Kate bought yogurt for a car snack, but there were no spoons in sight. So we improvised and made our own go-gurts. Totally clever until she started slurping the last dregs...and then giggling...and then almost choking and wrecking the car. Brilliant.

Carcasonne

2010-06-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

After the oh so lovely visit from Eddie and Phil to Aix, they were total sweethearts and gave me a lift back to Bordeuax. It was such a long drive, but Phil had some killer tunes and I rolled along the French countryside listening to Jeff Buckley and Nina Simone. I do need some sugar in my bowl, Nina, yes I do. We stopped for a refresher in Carcasonne. I had no idea that the city was so old and beautiful. It was a wonderful surprize.

I've seen other fortified cities before and they are impressive. But I have to say this one was stunning. It's really huge, a whole little village surrounded in stone walls with tall towers. It made me feel like Sleeping Beauty; I expected a dragon to be perching on the tower behind me and a dashing knight to come rushing to my rescue at any moment.

But of course I did have two dashing heros, my buddies Phil and Eddie. They delivered me to Chateau Brandeau again to have a little work in the vines again before I fly away for the states. Their humor and kindness have saved me many times before on this trip.

I think that Eddie was looking for his Prince Charming in Carcasonne....

Bistrot des Philosophies

2010-06-28T13:01:00.000-07:00

While Eddie and Phil were visiting, we took them to a lovely dinner in my favorite square in the city, Place Forum des Cardeurs. (We really needed the sustenance after a long day of potonk tournaments.) The square has recently been renovated and is so lovely at night with all the pretty lights and pretty people. Elly had discovered this little gem of a place, Bistrot des Philosophies, and took me there for the most delicious appetizer I've ever had: foie gras créme brulee. We went there earlier on our trip and fell in love with it. Of course we had to return and share this amazing dish with our dear friends...we ordered two. Creamy and savory and smooth with a little sweet crunch on top. I must learn how to make this dish. The atmosphere in Philosophies is chic and casual, the prices are totally reasonable (for Aix) and the lighting was divine. I'm always surprized at how the right lighting can transform a good meal into a great experience. We sat and drank some bubbly and enjoyed a piece of fabulous piece of cote du bouef (a slow cooked hunk of steak that is seared and then baked). The best French meal I've had since I arrived. Parfait!

The night was topped off with a hilarious encounter between Elly and a random young man on the street. Since my arrival in Aix Elly has had me convinced that there are these small toilets on the street that rise up out of the ground for festivals and other times of high tourism. You see the little portals on the streets all over town. I kept seeing them everywhere and never really thought too hard about it, just a passing thought of how odd it was to have these elevator bathrooms. On our way out of dinner a young man was lowering one of the units back down and Elly struck up a conversation with him about the uniqueness of this particular town feature. He explained in patient and rusty English that they were not toilets....they are trash bins. Lowering them underground keeps the unsightly mess off the posh streets. I really have no idea how or where her theory formed, but we had a good laugh when we actually stood over supposed bathrooms and realized that the unit was far too small to turn around in, let alone sit down. I have to credit Elly's enthusiastic nature with having me so unquestioningly convinced. It is sometimes a joy to be a clueless tourist.

More Provencal Cheese

2010-06-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

My goodness, it's been too long since my last post...and there's so much to tell! First, let me catch you up on the cheese news. After Roquefort, Elly and I went back to Aix en Provence where she and her French boyfriend were settling into their new "country house." I really do feel more comfortable away from all the plus posh hustle found in the center of Aix, and it gave me a chance to learn the finer points of a fabulous French lawn game called potonk, similar to bocce ball. I also had the chance to visit a local goat cheese farm and try out a few new recipes of my own the quiet countryside.

Elly and I visited a small goat operation just outside of Puyricard. Sandrine, who runs the farm with her husband and makes the cheese daily, was kind enough to allow Elly and I to watch her make the specialty of the farm and pester her with questions. We watched as she prepared a very rare and delicious ricotta style goat cheese called brousse du rove. It is made from the milk of the Rove goat, a breed that used to be found commonly in and around Marseilles. Nowadays you find mostly Saaen, Alpine and some others, but the milk from Rove goats has a special grassy quality that is super tasty. Sandrine prepared the yogurt style cheese by slowly bringing the milk up to 90°F and then adding a little vinegar to help the small curds form. Then she very carefully spooned the curds into tall, thin plastic tubes and sold them to us right away, no draining necessary. Usually the cheese is served as a dessert with jam or sugar and it was divine. The consistency was much more delicate and moist than ricotta, but much cheesier in flavor than yogurt. We took a bunch home and had some for breakfast each morning. You can learn more about the history of the cheese and the traditions of thier cheese making style here.

With no Hermes store around the corner to distract me, I was able to try out a few recipes I'd dreamed up on Bob Dylan's farm and had the perfect excuse for such elaborate creations; our friends Phil and Eddie from Chateau Brandeau in Bordeax came down for a weekend visit. You may remember this fabulous couple from my earlier posts. Eddie is a deliciously over the top Kiwi and Phil is his quiet, delightful companion from the UK. These men have the most wonderful bromance I've ever encountered and share cheeky rapport that instantly puts a smile on your face. I knew they would appreciate a little culinary experimentation, so I put together some dessert cheeses to try. The first a sugared rose petal with a dollop of fresh chevre rolled in sponge cake crumbs and topped with a healthy smear of dark chocolate. The crunchy petal with the soft cheese and smooth chocolate made for a really dynamic little bite...totally a winner. The next experiment was soaking some slightly aged chevre in various liqueurs. The first was soaked in a fruity, syrupy Minervois red wine, the second in a dry rose and the third in violet liqueur with lavender. The result was an Easter basket of colors and some lovely delicate aromas infused into the little pats of chevre. I loved the presentation but would like to try soaking them longer next time to get a stronger flavor.

That's all for tonight, but stay tuned for wine adventures in Bordeaux, an underground cathedral and a sand dune that swallows entire buildings!

Blue & Smelly

2010-06-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

After Elly came and broke me out of goat jail, we decided to take a good old fashioned American road trip to the cheese mecca of the entire country of France: Roquefort. I like to think that this pungent, difficult cheese is what separates the men from the boys in the world of cheese lovers. There's not a whole lot about Roquefort that's accessible or easy.

Roquefort is a protected region and the regulations about its production are strict and specific. The cheese can only be made and aged in the town of Roquefort, an area about 2 miles square. The sheep, from which come the delicious milk for the cheese, must be pastured on the mountainous land surrounding the town. The shepherds have formed a co-op for milk production, helping to organize the 2100 sheep farms, which each year contribute material for the 3 million cheeses produced in Roquefort.

The production of this famous cheese is a happy accident of geography. A fault line runs underneath the town and this has produced a network of underground caves which have steady, cold temperature...perfect for the ripening of large cheeses. Native to these caves is a very special bacteria called penicillium roqueforti. The bacteria is collected by putting under-baked loaves of bread in the caves and allowing the p. roqueforti to proliferate on it. It is then collected and inserted into the core of the cheese wheels and allowed to develop for several months.

And oh how tasty the result is. Having it directly from the source really changes the experience of eating it. First, the cheese was far more delicate and moist than varieties I'd had in the states. It was also far stronger than anything I'd ever tasted. It actually burned my nostrils as I exhaled, the same sensation as the few times I've had grappa or grain alcohol. To balance out this super strong flavor, we ate it with fresh figs, honey and mint. It was divine.

Bob Dylan Broke Up With Me

2010-06-15T02:20:00.000-07:00

Frustration. I was scheduled to stay in La Caunette making cheese for the whole month, but it seems that the fluffy, jovial, drunken god that rules my life is trying to teach me a lesson about the best laid plans. I need to let go. I need to be flexible. I need to stop being so attached to my expectations. (God, I sound like I've joined the Oprah book club...) I also need to get a better grip on the nuances of living in a foreign culture. My mantra for the last year has been this:

Let go

I still have not let go. But I'm getting better. And I'm getting slightly better at understanding the mind of average French person.

Yesterday my host, Bob Dylan's French cousin, told me that she would not be needing my help for the rest of the month. I could say that it's unfair that she was upset that I didn't help her as much as she thought I should....on the weekend...while I was in bed sick with a horrible cold. I could complain about the lack of instruction and hospitality. But instead I'm taking the lesson that I need to better at communicating my expectations and perspective, and that I'm trying my best to be graceful and kind and helpful even though I am severely frustrated. I am leaving today to go back to Aix-en-Provence with Elly to regroup. And buying a plane ticket back to California, because the cheese in my beautiful home state is pretty damn good too.

Daily Prayer

2010-06-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

Let my heart be where my feet are.

Mindfulness

2010-06-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Maybe

Sweet Jesus, talking

his melancholy madness,

stood up in the boat

and the sea lay down,

silky and sorry.

So everybody was saved

that night.

But you know how it is

when something

different crosses

the threshold--the uncles

mutter together,

the women walk away

the young brother begins

to sharpen his knife.

Nobody knows what the soul is.

It comes and goes

like the wind over the water--

sometimes, for days,

you don't think of it.

Maybe, after the sermon,

after the multitude was fed,

one or two of them felt

the soul slip forth

like a tremor of pure sunlight,

before exhaustion,

that wants to swallow everything,

gripped their bones and left them

miserable and sleepy

as they are now, forgetting

how the wind tore at the sails

before he rose and talked to it--

tender and luminous and demanding

as he always was--

a thousand times more frightening

than the killer sea.

--Mary Oliver

Today

Do not

Want to step so quickly

Over a beautiful line on God's palm

As I move through the earth's

Marketplace

Today.

I do not want to touch any object in this world

Without my eyes testifying to the truth

That everything is

My Beloved.

Something has happened

To my understanding of existence

That now makes my heart always full of wonder

And kindness.

I do not

Want to step so quickly

Over this sacred place on God's body

That is right beneath your

Own foot.

As I

Dance with

Precious life

Today.

--Hafiz

Oh Barcelona, I'm Coming Back to You Soon

2010-06-11T06:51:00.000-07:00

I hemmed and hawed and twisted in every imaginable direction to squirm my way out of it. All to no avail. Elly wanted to go to Barcelona last weekend, and, try though I might, I simply could not talk her out of it. Looking at it from this side of the trip, I don't know why I struggled so much. Barcelona has captured my imagination; it was enchanting and I can't wait to return.

Back to why I'm being such a hater lately. You may be wondering, "Jenny, not up for a fabulous adventure to a new city with her favorite traveling companion? That's so unlike her...I wonder if the smelly goat cheese is affecting her sanity?" And you'd be right! I have been uncharacteristically square lately...timid...conservative...even downright boring. Maybe it's the cold pasta at every meal, perhaps I'm finally feeling homesick or maybe I just need to get my act together. I don't know why, but I've been a real pain in the ass as of late. So when Elly suggested that we go to Barcelona, it actually took her four days (as opposed to four minutes) to convince me. The final showdown happened on Friday night when I was being so mopey that even I wanted a break from myself. Elly, being the best friend a girl could have, handed me a glass of wine, instructed me to down it in one gulp, and then dragged me into the pool with my clothes on. After that, I relented and we went to Barcelona the next morning.

From Narbonne, it was a very short train ride into Spain and so beautiful! We slid past wetlands with flamingos and pretty marshes and along the most gorgeous stretch of coast that I'd seen in a long time. (Don't be jealous, California...you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.) When we arrived in Barcelona, it was warm, dry and so perfectly sunny. We took our time walking from the train station to our hotel, a warm little stroll in the afternoon past shops selling either high-end ham or high-end handbags....both tempting. We'd found a real steal on a room right in the happening part of town. The little boutique hotel had a tiny rooftop pool (more like a large bathtub), so we changed into our suits and took a bottle of cava up to sit in the sun. All that sunshine and bubbly transformed me back into my adventurous self.

The city is strange and lovely. We had so little time in this charming place, but I saw just enough to wet my palate and tempt me back for more adventures. On the high hill overlooking Barcelona is small amusement park called the Tibidabo with rollercoasters, bumper cars, cotton candy and hot dogs. You reach it by taking first a trolley car then a funicular. All this wholesome fun is juxtaposed by the church right next to it on the hilltop, the beautiful Temple de Sagrat Cor. We also got a glance of a few of the Gaudi buildings. The Sagrada Familia was so beautiful, I could not stop looking at it. It is still under construction, but you could see the spires and towers rising up so ridiculously high, the figures and statues bending down and up in the most evocative lines. The building is continually under construction, with scaffolding and piles of construction materials lying around. It was like seeing a sculpture half-done. Walking around and seeing all the beautiful buildings was by far my favorite part of the trip. The streets are wide with tree-lined walkways in the middle of the boulevards, broad buildings on either side with neat balconies and beautifully carved doorways. The whole town feels big and open and warm. Every now and again the traditional, solid architecture was interrupted by a gothic or art nouveau building. I could have wandered around the streets and parks and squares with pretty fountains for a whole other week.

In anticipation of our somber journey back to Le Bouquet, it was gray and very rainy when we awoke on Sunday morning. We came back to La Caunette by train, a little damp from the walk to the station and a little less than enthused to return to our smelly goat dwelling after having spent the weekend in such a beautiful city. Sometimes when I'm milking and wrestling the thorn bushes away from the goat fences, I'm inclined to forget that I'm in France for the summer with one of my favorite people in the world learning how to make cheese because it makes me happy. Going to Barcelona was just the thing to screw my head back on straight and make me focus on where my feet are for this brief moment in my life: beautiful Europe.

Photos from Le Bouquet

2010-06-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

I have now officially added the term "goat herder" to my resume

The only escargot I'm likely to get here...

Daily cheese making.

Fresh milk each morning and evening

The little molds for fresh chevre

The Cat Ate My Quiche

2010-06-07T14:40:00.000-07:00

I arrived last week at a new farm in a little town called La Caunette. Our new home, Le Bouquet, sits at the foot of the Pyranees, just a short drive from Narbonne and the beautiful beaches of Southern France. We had finally arrived at our destination for the trip: a goat dairy. Our host, Melissa, came to get us at the train station, greeting us with a kiss on both cheeks. I kid you not, her Bob Dylan fro actually had a caterpillar crawling in it; this woman was a true farmer.

Le Bouquet has a small herd of goats (about 30) that are milked twice per day and this is the mainstay of the business. Melissa inherited the farm from her parents and, amazingly, runs the whole operation by herself. She's a tough broad, and I gotta give her props for the huge amount of work that she manages all by her lonesome. It takes a lot of commitment to work a 12 hour day, 7 days a week and live by yourself with a herd of smelly goats. She really seems to enjoy it, and has managed to make a vital business from cheese-making.

My respect for her is the upside. The downside is that our relationship is characterized by mutual bafflement. I have never thought of myself as a particularly high-maintenance person, and since I started traveling and staying on farms, my expectations for daily comfort have drastically reduced. But somehow, I still seem to come across to this kind farmer as hopelessly posh. My daily shower was interpreted as extravagant. Heating milk for coffee in the morning is greeted with a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at the propane tank. I have never felt so bougeois in my entire life.

The entire WWOOF program is predicated on a basic agreement of three things:
1. You come and work
2. You are fed
3. You receive a place to sleep and bathe.
I have had no trouble with adapting to the lifestyle of my hosts...until now. We arrived on Monday and by Wednesday had eaten, literally, the same thing for every meal: the same loaf of bread, the same block of cheese, the same pot of plain, cold pasta, the same bowl of salad. Not that there's anything wrong with that...I just was in the mood for something, say, warm or perhaps, not pasta. Melissa went to the farmers' market on Wednesday morning to sell her cheese and left Elly and I in charge of making our own lunch. I got super resourceful and made a lovely quiche with whatever I could find; a bit of flour we found in the pantry, some leftover cheese from the evening before, a few eggs we had collected from the hen-house, a bit of mushroom and onion we scrounged from a bin and voila! delicious quiche.

Melissa came home and looked a little skeptical. I could see that she thought this was a bit of a production for an afternoon meal, but I was really ready to have something tasty and sat down to munch. I thought myself very clever to have made two so that we could have a bit for dinner as well and was congratulating myself for being so thrifty. It felt like a small victory. But I really had only won the battle not the war. This quickly became evident when I went into the kitchen post-lunch to clean up. On the counter was the bloody cat, hovering over my perfect, tasty, live-affirming quiche. She had eaten big bites out of the whole thing and I thought I might break into tears on the spot. Here's the thing about staying on farms: your whole world is reduced down into the most basic elements. You do not have movies or parties or social circles or any of the other things that make life so full and busy and rich from day to day. All you have is a full day of hard work and the promise of a bit of relaxing and eating in the evening. These basic elements take on a new meaning since they are literally ALL that you have to look forward to each day. So when that damned cat ate my quiche, I felt like someone had sucker-punched my new puppy.

And here's the real kicker: Bob Dylan served it for dinner anyway.

Aix Marks the Spot

2010-05-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Last weekend Elly and Jean-Hughes took a little holiday and I found myself alone in Aix. I got the chance to walk around in my underpants until 2PM drinking coffee, one of my favorite activities. A little rejuvenating solitude is always just the thing to restore my spirits.

The city of Aix-en-Provence is an old Roman town, originally a military station connecting the empire with the wilderness of Gaul. Everywhere you look there are Roman fountains, an old aqueduct, an underground catacomb. Laid on top of this structure is the provençal lifestyle with its simple, country cuisine, big markets and slow pace. The final layer of the town is newly acquired prosperity and chic facade: the stylish and attractive young people, the Dior shop on every corner and the white, modern restaurants. It seems like a resort town that could be in any number of Western countries, but there's a certain charm to the town...like a little layer cake of unique cuteness.

While Elly and Jean-Hughes were away I took an afternoon to wander around, and was swept up in the enchanting moment of being alone in Provence. I indulged my little girl fantasies of France one night by having a dinner of cheeses, foie gras, chocolate and pink wine while watching Sofia Coppola's Marie-Antoinette. After the movie was over, I went out to sit on the patio. Our apartment is on the top floor of an old building on a narrow street. From there I have a wonderful view of the neighbors, especially if I climb onto the tiled roof. It was like getting a bonus reel. One of my favorite past-times has always been to walk around neighborhoods at dusk. At this time of night people usually have their lights turned on but haven't yet closed their drapes, so you can peer into their private world. You see a couple making dinner, a woman talking on the phone and picking at her toes, or someone just sitting in front of the television. Usually people aren't doing anything terribly interesting, but there is a certain twilight calmness that I find in seeing these mundane moments. You also just get to see the insides of their houses or apartments. I'm always surprised by how many folks live with bare white walls...no posters, pictures or paint...just unadorned sheet rock. It's depressing, but an interesting peek into the mind of most of humanity. So as I was sitting on the little porch in Provence I was able to see the woman two floors down sitting at her computer, typing something, her lax face blue from the glow of the screen. I also saw a man in his Euro-brief undies hopping around on one foot trying to make dinner for himself. It's moments like these that make me delighted to be alone, to just watch and smile and not need to try communicating with anyone why something so insignificant as a nearly-naked and limping man brings me so much joy.

I also took a little adventure over the weekend to see an event called "Transhumance." In a small town called Eguilles, about 11 kilometers from Aix, they hold a yearly festival celebrating the moving of their sheep herds to summer pastures. The shepherds parade their flocks through the village, do some dancing, break some bread and get a blessing from the local priest. Apparently, this is fairly common practice in rural Europe. I arrived by bus on Sunday morning for the mass. I'll spare you the comedy-of-errors portion of the tale and just skip right to the details of the event. It was a traditional service, highlighted with music from the local "peasant" band: a group of people in head-scarves and vests who played flutes, drums and other rustic instruments. They brought one symbolic sheep inside for the mass and after communion the whole procession moved into the square where they joined the rest of the flock. The priest said a prayer for the health and safety of the sheep and sprinkled some holy water in their general direction. The ewes seemed a little freaked out and the music played on.

Overall, the event was nothing to write home about, but there was a moment during the mass that so clearly exemplified why I love being alone. I have to preface this by saying that I was raised deep in the church...going to church three times a week, marrying a youth pastor at 19, being exorcised twice kind of raising. My earlier anger and rebellion from this upbringing has mellowed, much to my surprise. What remains is a calm, soft place inside of myself that feels awe and mystery at very unexpected moments. I had such a moment at the church service for the sheep. The priest was transforming the communion. He took first the wafer and raised it to the heavens, concentrating and incanting. Then he took the cup of wine and did the same. After lifting both the wafer and the wine, this powerful, beautifully robed, old man bent his knees and bowed before the communion table. His posture when he knelt said that this kneeling was neither ritualistic nor obligatory. I have felt this same overwhelming moment before; when you kneel and prostrate yourself not because you have to but because you must. Your knees and head bow of their own accord in the face of an overwhelming feeling of smallness. This priest asked for a miracle, the miracle of turning a dry cracker and some cheap wine into something divine, and, even though he had done it thousands of times before, he still felt overwhelming awe.

I know many people who gravitate towards partnership for the magic that it affords even the most mundane moments. Drinking coffee each morning becomes an act of communion. Going to bed each night becomes a quiet, perfect moment for confession of the day's trials. I have felt this perfect peace in union. I also wonder why all of my moments of true transcendence are alone, why my feelings are amplified in the vacuum of solitude. Is this a paradox?

It'ly

2010-05-28T04:07:00.000-07:00

My friend Stephanie makes diagrams of people's story-telling styles, an attempt to graphically depict their individual narrative arcs. She's never made one of mine, but I think if she did it would be an arrow, sliding downhill and ultimately ending in a burning pile of poo. Most of my stories, I'm realizing, are about personal disaster and my negotiations with it. Sorry to ruin the ending, but this one will be no different.

As most of my stories begin, Elly and I made grand plans for the day; we decided to go to Italy. Our plans were rather undefined. In the spirit of the classic American road-trip, we packed some necessities (cheese, bread, blankets, wine, music) and headed in the general direction of the border. Both luckily and unluckily, we did not get more than 2 kilometers outside of Aix. Elly and I have found ourselves in perilous, gas-less situations before while in France, so we made the responsible decision to fill up the tank before we left town. I am no expert on motors, but I did know our car preferred diesel gasoline and we scrutinized our choices at the pump to figure out which one fit the bill. Elly seemed perfectly confident in her choice, so I went inside the station to peruse their chilled beverage selection. We paid and took off for our adventure, chatting about something (which I cannot remember) that seemed both important and totally engrossing at the time. So I didn't really pay much attention when Elly casually mentioned that there was something wrong with the gas pedal. Neither did it really register when she began to look more than a little worried that the car was losing power. Just when Elly was asking me if we should pull over, the car lost power completely and we found ourselves stopped on the shoulder of an off-ramp.

That is when the dream of sleeping on an Italian beach died a sudden and brutal death. Our first instinct was to call Jean-Hughes, Elly's French boyfriend and the owner of the car. He had just left for London the day before and was not available. So we started walking and eventually found a bright orange call box on the side of the freeway. This begins the Shakespearian comedy of errors portion of the tale. It turns out that our terrible French, which thus far had managed to get us by surprisingly well, did not translate AT ALL over the traffic noise from the highway and the horrible connection of the call box. After about six or seven attempts (an hang-ups) to explain our situation to the man on the other end of the line, we finally managed to get across that we needed assistance and he told us to wait by the car. Neither of us was convinced that help was really on the way, but we trudged back to car anyway, mostly out of a lack of other options and the promise of snacks.

We sat for a while on the grassy shoulder, counting the cars that passed by us, (including more than one police vehicle) honking and yelling but not stopping. Finally we got desperate and were able to wave down a taxi. We explained the situation to the man, and he offered to take us to a mechanic so that we could get some help. We got a couple of kilometers down the road when Jean-Hughes called back. He instructed us to return to the car and call the insurance company, whose number was posted on the windshield and which we had repeatedly overlooked while searching for a number to call for help. So back we went to the broken car. The taxi driver was nice enough to talk with Jean-Hughes and let us use his cell phone to call first the insurance company and then the police. I thought, "What a great fella." What I didn't realize was that he was running the meter. 25 euro later, he left us with promises that the police would be there soon to tow the car. So apparently there is a $40 fee in France for someone to call the police.

Elly and I tried to make the best of it and set out a little picnic in the grass and played UNO until the police arrived. We had thought that the police vehicle had come to tow our car out of the way, but this clearly was not their intention. Sections of the highway are contracted to different private companies and only the police really know which section belongs to which mechanic's garage, so their only reason for coming out was to radio the appropriate person. They also put out some orange cones "for safety" and rolled our car backwards a bit and slightly further into the road. They left with assurances that a mechanic was on his way. I watched the whole time and never saw them radio anyone with our location, so I was a little skeptical. One baguette, three blocks of cheese and seven hands of UNO later, a tow truck appeared. He towed us to the garage, but at this point, it was about 15 minutes til closing time and they would not be able to fix the car until the morning. Just when we were feeling like the worst was over, the secretary also informed us, after having gotten a hold of the insurance company, that the tow and repairs would not be covered by the policy because "the car is too new." The insurance seemed to feel that such things should be covered by the manufacturer's warranty, but, the secretary told us, the manufacturer probably wouldn't cover it either because it was our own stupidity in choosing the wrong fuel that has caused this mess. This was a real low point. We asked if anyone was headed towards Aix for the night and would give us a ride. They simply pointed the direction of the bus station.

What do you do when life gives you lemons? I eat lemon glacé with raspberry foam at a two star Michelin restaurant. Some turn to retail therapy for solace, Elly and I turn to cuisine therapy. That night we ate at Le Formal, a quite little underground restaurant in the heart of Aix-en-Provence that served us a wonderful seven course meal and a chilly bottle of champagne. Like my friend Ana told me this morning, "I felt really bad about spending too much money yesterday on a taxi, so when I got back I went to H&M and bought a bunch of clothes to make myself feel better." It makes no sense, but it works. With each tiny course that was brought to our table, each time the server refilled my champagne flute, I felt the waves of anxiety melt away. When the final course was served, I had completely forgotten the events of the day. All I thought about was the way that the vanilla ice cream with orange zest exploded on my palate (literally, there were Pop-Rocks in it) and made me imagine that it was the fourth of July in my mouth.

Pyranees, Attempt #1

2010-05-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

We really did try to make cheese in the Pyranees, but let me tell you, it was not in the cards. After Elly and I left Chateau Brandeau last week, we went directly to our next farm...our first cheese-making farm! But that's the thing about traveling with the WWOOF program, it's a gambling man's way to see the world. We wanted to bet on this "traditional," "rustic" operation as an idyllic spot, high in the mountains, perfect for learning the old-fashioned way to craft fromage. We really were betting on the wrong horse, though. When we entered the house of our new hosts, it was like stepping back in time 100 years, but not in a romantic way.

Our first red flag was the smell of the house. One of the blessings and curses of inhabiting my body is a very sensitive nose. When I entered our hosts' home that day, my nose was screaming, "There is a male goat sleeping under my new bed and he smells like all the worst parts of a barnyard and a brothel!" I thought that I might gag. Our second scarlet banner was what appeared to be a hoard of sick, screaming children running rampant through the house. There were actually only three of them, but sometimes children have the singular ability to appear to be in all places at once, their tiny voices around you on all sides at once, the affect multiplied by each child added to the mix. Our third giant flashing red light was the filth. I have seen some dirty places and am not easily deterred by a little bit of untidiness, but when I used the bathroom, I can honestly say that the last time it was cleaned was sometime last century. I thought to myself, "It's okay, I can just use the little creek outside to wash up every day;" I could not imagine anything akin to cleaning of one's self happening in that room...my brain said, "Error, error! Clean cannot happen in this room." The fourth pillar of fire in that dark night of our discontent was the cheese making operation itself. When we went outside (mostly to escape the stink), we saw their animals, sheep mostly, all of whom looked like they were in deep negotiations with the Grim Reaper. They all looked so sick and ill-tended, I just wanted to open their little pen and yell, "Be free, little sheep! Get out of here while there's still time!" Elly also saw the cheese making molds floating in a muddy hole next to the creek, covered with green fur. I felt like I was getting food poisoning just hearing about it.

And that's when we decided: no amount of trying or attitude-adjusting is going to make this into an educational or pleasant experience. So, in our very broken French, we politely explained that we would like to go back to the train station, "nous sommes desolee," and apologized for wasting their time. The family was actually quite nice about it and offered to drive us back down the big hill to town so we could find a train to somewhere, anywhere but there. It was at this moment that I had a moment of self-doubt. After all, the family was well-meaning and clearly kind...they were going to take us back to the station and not make a big stink about it. Maybe I had judged too quickly. Maybe I could learn to appreciate with the randy goat odor living under my bed, maybe I would commune with nature in unexpected ways each morning while I bathed in the shivery creek. Maybe I was just being a prissy American.

And then this happened:
The daughter of our hosts was mother to two of the three aforementioned sick and crying children. She was going to take us down to town to catch a train. She simply asked that we watch her children for a moment while she made a phone call. She indicated that her youngest, referred to simply as "bebe," was outside and could we please keep an eye on him for a moment. Elly and I went out to the garden to check in on him, but he simply was not there. We started wandering further and further in circles around the house calling, stupidly, "bebe, bebe!" The kid was nowhere in sight. It was then that I had a mild panic attack, and in the flash of a second I saw with sudden clarity the scene unfold before me: the swift creek by the house, the little child washed downstream, the angry French family blaming us for this tragedy, the imprisonment in the Bastille. At this point the other child wandered out of the house and I swoooped her up, clamping her tightly onto my hip, and thinking, "I am NOT losing this one." I kept asking the little girl, "Ou est ta frere? Ou est ta frere?" She had no idea. I ran down to the creek. Then I hear the mother and grandmother join the fray, screaming "bebe, bebe!" in voiced of clear and awful distress. At the exact moment that my panic was starting to rise up out of my chest into my throat, I heard a cry of relief from the mother. I looked behind me and saw her by the car, holding her child. She explained that before she went into the house to make a phone call, she had put the child into his car-seat, but had simply forgotten she'd put him there. "J'ai oubliee...." she kept saying.

And then I knew with complete clarity that leaving was exactly the right thing to do.

So Elly and I ended up back at the train station a few hours later and considerably more shaken. It was still early afternoon, so I stayed at there to figure out our train options for the day and Elly wandered up to the Tourism Office to try to figure out some lodging for the night and use the phone. She returned with a very small French woman who owned the kindest eyes I've ever seen. Karine was from the Tourism Office and had offered to have us stay at her house for the night while we sorted out our next step. At first Elly and I were a little apprehensive, mostly because of our awful luck just hours before, but this woman was so sweet and nice, we thanked her and got into her little station wagon. She took us to her house, introduced us to her husband Jerome and her son Theo and stuck a beer in each of our hands. Her little house was beautiful and she made up a bed for us in the guest room. Karine is the single most hospitable person I have ever encountered in my life. She shared her homemade foie gras and saucison, refilled our glasses with wine, and insisted that we treat her house as if it were our own. She offered to let us stay longer if we liked to enjoy the Pyranees, and we sat on her porch in the warm evening air, admiring the view of the snowy mountains in the distance. Elly and I decided to go back to our home-base in Aix the next morning and Karine deposited us at the station in the morning, helped us speak to the fellow behind the counter and actually cried when we got on the train. I wanted to put her in my suitcase and take her with me. Because of Karine, I know that this is simply my first attempt as discovering the Pyranees....she's like a promise of gold buried in the hills.