Cockadoodle Doo or Cocorico?

 We stood in the middle of the road, having walked together 13 miles that day and Claudine grasped my forearm.

"Mais non! It doesn't make sense. It doesn't sound like that at all!" she insisted. 

This passionate response from my French friend came after she asked me what we say in America for the sound a rooster makes. 

Maybe I didn't sell it to her, I think, and I make a crowing sound like "Cock a doodle doo!"

"Non, it's cocorico. It sounds just like a rooster!" she insisted. 

"It sounds like a drink," I insisted. "I'll have a cocorico in Puerto rico."

We were both bent over laughing as we continued walking down the road, the sun shining on us after walking five and a half hours so far. We had started that morning in Figeac, France, in the Lot region. We'd left behind the more extreme mountain climbs in the Aude for rolling hills and homes built of bleached stone with carefully sculpted roof tiles. We planned to walk four days along one of the many trails that lead to El Camino de Santiago in Spain. In France, the routes are called Chemin de Saint Jacque de Compostelle 

On Tuesday we dropped the car in St. Cirq la Popie, our ending point, and we took the bus back to Figeac. We found a restaurant in Figeac, eating dinner at 8 p.m. When we opened the menu, we nearly fainted at the perfection. I had told Claudine on the bus that I hadn't eaten foie gras or duck since I'd been back in France. Then we searched for a restaurant that served foie gras. We ended up at La Puce a l'Oreille in Figeac. Starting with foie gras then moving on to magret de canard (duck). 

"If we eat foie gras for dinner every night, we'll gain many kilos before we get home," Claudine pointed out before taking a bite of the starter and pausing for the sheer pleasure of it in her mouth. 

If ever there was a meal fit for the word sublime, this was it.  The setting, the service, the food. Surely we were ready for our hike the next day. 

The jovial host at the B&B saw us off after coffee and croissants. We stopped at a bakery for a baquette sandwich -- jambon sec, butter and lettuce. The bakery server cut the sandwich in two so we could share it later. And, voila, we were off. The trail would be 21 kilometers from the Figeac to Corn. 

Corn is a strange name for a town, but in France, they don't call corn corn. They call it maïs with two syllables. A fairly steep climb took us out of Figeac, but the entire hike, 15 miles, we only climbed about 1400 feet, which we struggle up in 45 minutes leaving our town.

Hiking long distances in France is very different from the United States. We don't carry tents and sleeping bags. We don't pack our bags with beans and rice to eat over a fire. We walk from town to town and sleep in a gites or B and B. We have dinner in a restaurant or at the host's table. 

After a few hours of hiking, we ventured through the village Faycelles and stopped to take pictures of the irises lining stone steps. At the top, we stopped for coffee and a panoramic view of the valley and river below. 

Two hours later in Beduer, we walked into town to find that the only store near the trail had closed at 12:30. We couldn't buy drinks for lunch, but we had our water and our sandwich. Claudine had brought along two pain au chocolat from the day before, so we had those for dessert as we sat at a concrete table by the cathedral with a view of a nearby chateau. We chatted with hikers from Canada, from Nantes and Orleans France. Most of the hikers on this trail are from France. 

During our six hour hike, Claudine had declared it "French speaking only" so that I could practice my French. Walking and following trail markers and trying to speak only French, it was a challenge. But by the end of the day, I wondered if I'd be able to speak English when I called Earl later. 

We walked a few kilometers outside of Corn to our BnB, thinking we would never get there. Stopping to take pictures of a field of poppies. A climb up to the BnB and we were greeted by a giant white Great Pyrenees dog with deep woofs.

Finally, after 15 miles, 22 kilometers, we could take our shoes off our tired feet. Rinse the salt of sweat from our bodies and enjoy another great meal, this time of cucumber in creme fraiche for starters then couscous with lamb and carrots followed by gelato. 

Winter Life in France

Winter life is different because fewer people are out and about. 

This has been a cold winter compared to last when it only got down to freezing 3 or 4 times. This year the temperature hovered around 0 Celsius for about two weeks when we awakened. But sometimes the temperature would soar to the 60s (midteens Celsius) under very blue skies. 

Frost still on the ground but the sun has reached the mountains.

I prefer a nice moderate temperature, like this morning it was 8 Celsius, about 46 Fahrenheit. Perfect for brisk walks or runs. 

We've  had a few foggy mornings too. 

We’ve been getting together with friends and taking care of necessary items, like this year’s visa, or titre de séjour. Ours is safely in hand for another year. After five years in France, we can apply for a 10-year card; I'll need to pass a French test and we'll have to show them five years of taxes, so fingers crossed that we succeed next year. They have an age limit, and over 65, visitors don't have to pass the language test. 

We've had a few outings. 

I explored Perpignan with a friend and we found a cozy alley filled with people drinking outdoors and listening to music. 

Aperol Spritz and Vermouth and soda

Then we went to a nearby restaurant for a scrumptious meal. 

Hope they don't run out of wine!

I had croquette beouf confit while my friend had La Ricaine -- fries, eggs, and bacon with gravy. A perfect Sunday brunch food. 

We sat at the bar in front of the chefs

We also took an outing to the beach, of course. Isn't there something about February that makes everyone want to go to the beach?

The sun was warm and the beach was inviting, but we weren't crazy enough to go in, although we saw some people going in wearing wet suits, and another guy inching into the water while wearing only a tiny speedo. 

Last week, my friend's mother died and we traveled to her funeral. It was my first French funeral. It was catholic, so that felt familiar, even though in French. 

The church was amazing. (I only took this picture after the congregation had filed out.) 

I wasn't sure about going to the burial, picturing a long procession of cars driving to some far away cemetery. But that's not how it happens here. Instead, everyone walked behind the hearse as it made its way through town, police stopping traffic, and we wound our way through the streets to the cemetery just outside of town.

It felt very intimate to walk behind the coffin and escort it to its final resting place. Prayers at the cemetery and then people filed past to say their final goodbye. Very touching.

The sun shone during the burial, but in the opposite direction, the sky turned dark and ominous. 

Grateful the rain held off during the service

Tonight we have friends coming for a simple dinner of tartiflette and salad.

Tomorrow we go to another friend's house for dinner. 

That's winter life in southwest France. Enjoying the sun during the day, enjoying the company of friends and eating hearty foods in the evening. 

Isolation and Socialization

We’re not very good at isolation. 

We had every intent to isolate 10 days. Then a friend said the rules say 7 days, but they’re a suggestion. 

We let our friends know we’d be happy to see them in the garden if they felt safe. 

But the weather was rainy and chilly that first day so Lou and Steve brought us dinner, and Derrick and Kris joined us, all of them with their dogs, so 4 dogs and our surly cat roaming around. We ate and played board games until 9 pm when I put away the wine and kicked everyone out. I figured I’d done well to stay awake that long. 

Quillan is preparing for the Tour de France to visit.

On Monday, our friends Sue and Steve came for drinks. Drinks turned into dinner before they raced home to beat the 9 p.m. curfew. 

I suggested that Jo might want to drop by for a glass of blanquette on Tuesday after I finished teaching, and then invited her husband Matthew to join us for dinner as well, so they both arrived and we grilled chicken on the grill and talked late into the evening, including a bit of poetry recitation (thank you, Matthew.)

On Wednesday, the bars and restaurants opened outside in France for the first time since October. Did I have a choice but to meet Derrick early at a café where we had a café crème on the terrace overlooking the river Aude. 

The flowers grow out from the bridge each spring. 

I'd already asked the belly dancing group, which meets outside on the tennis courts, if they would feel safe having me there since we dance outside. Everyone was fine with it. Meanwhile, the husbands of the belly dancers were gathering for a drink at an outdoor bar and asked Earl to come along. 

When we finished learning some Bollywood moves, my friends urged me to join the husbands for a drink too. So, I did, drinking a monaco, beer, lemonade and grenadine, glowing a beautiful red. 

I returned home to work on taxes where my frustration grew, as you can see from my previous post. 

On Thursday, I met Derrick for a coffee again and then a drink later that day, all outside. We talked about dinner, and agree to combine our meals -- I had pork in the crock pot and he made potato salad. We made an attempt at playing Password, but my brain apparently is not over jet lag. Earl and Kris did quite well, so maybe it isn't jet lag. 

After I finished teaching on Friday, we hosted my friend Linda from Frenchless in France and a friend. It's always fun to catch up with friends from far away. 

Friday was fish and chips night. The van parks in Quillan near a local bar, the PMU. The PMU provides the drinks while the van doles out fish and chips which we must order ahead of time. We hadn't seen our American friends Jim and Theresa yet, so were happy to meet with them and walk over to fish and chips. Some red wine, some greasy chips and breaded fish. Earl and I share one order and that is plenty.  

Saturday, technically seven days after we arrived, is another market day, that meant more coffee alongside the river, plus coffee from the van that kept us in take away coffee throughout the lockdown since last October. And finally, our first real meal out in France since October 30th. We returned to Les Platanes, the restaurant we last ate at. 

The nine of us sat at two tables, a limit of six adults is in place even for outdoor tables. I ordered duck and fries, something I haven't eaten since October. We were all so happy to be out for the evening, although we remained aware of the 9 p.m. curfew. The duck was a bit overdone, but the wine flowed and I enjoyed ordering a café gourmande, a mix of desserts and tiny cup of espresso. 

Earl finished his dessert and looked my way. I loaded up the remaining cake, ice cream and chantilly (whipped cream) and sent it his way. 

It was in the midst of this week that Earl began asking when we would have a day off - and day without anything scheduled. Like a race horse in mid-stride, it took me a minute to remember that maybe he didn't feel the urge to catch up with everyone like I did. 

But we'd already committed to an afternoon at Sue and Steve's on Sunday, an afternoon that ended shortly before curfew with way too much cheese and nibbles. 

And on Monday, we planned an outing. We ended up going to the sea in the morning since the weather forecast warned of higher winds in the afternoon. The water was cold, so I satisfied my sea urge by walking in the sand. Earl and Kris went in and they report the water was breathtaking, not in a good way. 

The sparkly sea. 

After being told all the restaurants along the beach were full, it was a bank holiday, which meant no one was at work and many people were at the beach, we drove into Beziers. We'd enjoyed a stop in Bezier four years earlier when searching for a place to live. 

We found a restaurant with outdoor seating. I tried duck again and was much more pleased by the thick magret de canard cooked rare and juicy. I shared only a bit with Derrick and with his dogs, eating the whole thing. 

Yum. Hand cut fries, duck and salad. 

We finished the meal and went walking along the park that stretches through the center of the city, Plateau des poètes. A lovely walk in the sun admiring all the poets who were born in the area. The fountains are impressive. 

A moody sky over the fountain

And finally, today, Earl got his wish. A day without dinner plans. I met my friend Isa for coffee in the square this morning.

Cappuccino with chantilly

 And I might have gone to meet some other friends for a drink after they signed papers on a new house. But other than that, an evening for two stretches in front of us. 

As my British friends might say, We're rubbish at isolating. Luckily, we were vaccinated and tested so felt safe that we weren't spreading Covid. 

Mid-Winter Outings

The groundhog may have seen his shadow on February 2nd, but spring is fast erupting here in the South of France. 

Some things haven't changed much. Restaurants and bars remain closed. We have a 6 p.m. curfew every night, which means we can't gather with friends in the evenings. (Yes, this is what it is meant to do.)

The vaccine is being given out at a very slow rate in France, which is a bit disheartening. 

Still, we find ways to occupy our time. 

My time is complicated because I work most days from 11-2, taking only Wednesday off work. But when I have the day off, we try to have an adventure.

This Wednesday, thanks to friends who recommended it, Earl and I traveled with Jack and Jules to Roquefort les Cascades. That's roquefort like the cheese, but not a cheese in sight. Instead, the end of the name "cascade," which means waterfall, is what we went for. 

Our friends Jim and Theresa had been earlier that week and said the waterfalls we're at peek from the melting snow. 

Several cascading jets of water made their way from the top of the hills

Each rise we climbed showed us more waterfalls.
 If the temperature had been warmer, I might have suspected a tropical paradise. 

My perpetually crooked sunglasses on top of my head as we attempted to pose in front of a waterfall. 

There's a short video of a waterfall at the bottom of this post. I couldn't get it to move up 

A week ago Sunday before, I had seen a sign advertising a honey festival. I grew up with a honey festival and continue to dream about the deliciousness of honey ice cream. I wasn't expecting that, but still decided it was worth a trip. The day was gorgeous and our friends Sue and Steve agreed to join us. 

The honey festival was in Tautavel, famous for an ancient skull discovered there proving that human ancestors lived in the area 550,000-400,000 years ago. 

The sunshine convinced us to show Sue and Steve the gorge near Tautavel. 

 The honey festival couldn't hold a candle to Lebanon's honey festival that I remember as a child, but we enjoyed looking at some bee basics. Earl and I bought a jar of honey to support the local beekeepers, along with a loaf of fig bread. Everyone who bought honey got a free sprig of mimosa. 

The mimosa blossoms were gorgeous.
Too bad I learned they can be toxic to cats so had to throw it out. 

The Wednesday before that, we had to travel to the "big city" of Perpignan to pick out new tiles for the half bath on our first floor. Since we were in Perpignan, we decided to take a trip to the beach, the Mediterranean. 

Glorious sunshine. The sand was soft, no wind blowing. But the water was cold. 

Jim came prepared, as always, wearing shorts.
Earl just walked in with his pants rolled up and they quickly unrolled. 

We didn't stay on the beach long, but it was nice to remember that warm weather and more outings will come our way as winter turns to spring. 

Theresa and I didn't spend much time in the water. 

On another Sunday morning, we went to the market in Esperaza with Jack and Jules. 

The market is in full swing, including little cups of take away coffee. 

So we'll consider having outings with our friends and exploring this beautiful country we live in. 

Here's a video of the waterfalls at Roquefort les Cascades

The Last Day

As we walked home Thursday night, the clock ticking toward 11, Earl said, “I’m really glad the day is over.”

“I guess I pushed it too much,” I replied as we removed our masks, leaving centre ville behind. 

We laughed but on Thursday, the last day before a month-long quarantine, we tried to squeeze every bit of life out of it. 

The day was glorious with sunshine and tinkling yellow leaves in the breeze. 

A small vineyard shows off its fall colors

With the announcement Wednesday night that everything would shut down on Friday at 12:01 a.m., we made a plan to get some necessities on Thursday. We knew the grocery stores would remain open, but we had slacked off and let staples get depleted, and the shelves of the stores often go bare the first few days. 

So Earl dropped me at the grocery store at 10 til 9. It opened at 9 and there was already a line. The line behind me was even longer than this. 

A grocery cart is called a chariot in French. The couple in front of me must have been
taking advantage of shopping together, which we aren't allowed to do
during confinement. Only one person per household. 

Earl went on to fill the car up with gas. I had driven to the Mediterranean the day before and the gas light came on as I returned to town. Gas prices will probably go down, but I didn't like to have an empty car in case of an emergency. 

He also went to the hardware store Mister Bricolage to get some supplies we need for patching and painting the walls of the office, along with continuing to sand and repair the shutters. During the last shut down, the hardware stores weren't open at the beginning, then they opened to builders, and finally they opened to everyday people stuck at home and wanting to make improvements. 

By 9:30 or so, we were through the long lines and returning home with the bottle of Beefeater gin since the Bombay shelf was empty. We have definite necessities. And a few other bags filled with yogurt, broccoli, potatoes, cat food. You know. 

We walked to the small market in town for decaf coffee and a few other things that I had forgotten -- oatmeal and cocoa. Then had coffee in our favorite café, Le Colibri, which means hummingbird. We talked with the owner about what she would do during the lockdown and she showed up pictures of their horses and farmlands where they would work while they couldn't run their café/bar. 

Earl had scheduled a last minute quarantine haircut, and lucky for us, Melissa came to our house to do it. I taught Chinese students while Earl went to meet Jack for lunch. Jack's wife Jules is still in the States, so he will start the quarantine alone. 

After I finished teaching, we climbed on our bikes for a ride. During quarantine, we are allowed to exercise for one hour a day within one kilometer of our homes. This was our last chance for a long ride. 

Every bike ride requires a stop at a cafe

We biked about 13 kilometers to the town of Couiza and met some friends there for drinks. They were supposed to be coming to our house for dinner on Saturday, but now that is cancelled. No friends. No interaction in person through December 1, at least. 

Enjoying the sun

We pedaled home before the sun set, a little earlier here in Quillan because of the mountains. 

Then we walked back to the Colibri for drinks with friends. It was to be our "French-speaking" group which has been meeting on Fridays, a combination of women who do both belly dance and tango. Isabelle, our tango teacher, came for drinks but couldn't stay for dinner. So from 6-8 we drank and laughed, enjoying that we could be together. 

I had suggested dinner, reminding people that this was our last chance not to cook for a month. Restaurants plan to offer take out starting next week, so that may not be strictly true, but it seemed like a good excuse.

So at 8, we walked over to Pizzeria les Platanes. We had reservations for 8, but we had to separate into two tables of four because only groups of 6 can gather. Inevitably, the women sat together and the men sat together. 

Cheers

Men's selfie

Photo interrupted by Olivier, the always charming waiter. 

We ate and drank and ordered dessert and some ordered coffee, reluctant to leave knowing that we wouldn't be together again for a month. We watched the waiters turn over the tables and seat more people. That doesn't usually happen in France. People eat and linger, but everyone was desperate for one last dinner out. Some people came in as late as 10:30 and we wondered if they would be finished eating by the time the lockdown began at midnight. 

At our table, we talked about meeting furtively on walks or zoom meetings and then we said goodbye.

The month will fly past and before Christmas, hopefully, we'll be huddled under outdoor heaters sipping hot chocolate and amaretto.

A Kind Friend and A Lovely Morning

 This morning, I sat on a mat in my neighbors' front garden. The sun tried to pierce through a leafy green tree and a slight breeze blew to cool us as Stella led me in meditation and yoga. 

A view from my run

It might not be for everyone, but the morning had been pretty perfect. It started with a 4-mile run, then a shower before I joined Stella for yoga. She lives in Copenhagen and I have only met her twice when she travels to France to the house next door to us. 

The Aude (L'Aude) is a lovely setting for running and meditating. 

Stella might think she is an unassuming, polite Danish person, but she is a force to be reckoned with. As soon as we met, she told me I needed to do yoga with her. I have dabbled in yoga, but it has never been my thing. I love running. I grudgingly carved out some time to do yoga with her in July but it became a habit that I enjoyed, but only when Stella is in town. 

Stella reminds me a bit of Phoebe from Friends. She lives life with gusto. During the 14th of July celebration downtown, Grace and I were dancing to the band and we had just wondered where Stella was when she "slid" into the crowd and joined us. Her dancing was exuberant and with abandon, like Phoebe's running. 

Stella is in it for the joy. 

I've learned a lot from her. 

I do feel my own kind of joy when I'm running (not like Phoebe!). But I've learned to find the peace in sitting on a yoga mat and feeling the breath move through my body. I'm not anxious about the time any more, and I know that is a luxury because my schedule is flexible (unlike my body when I'm doing yoga). 

So many times, when Stella isn't around though, I ask myself, "What would Stella do?" and my first answer is "Eat some cheese," but the second answer is "Take the time to be curious and to embrace life." So more and more, that's what I'm doing. 

Saturday Snapshots -- Friends

Join West Metro Mommy for this weekly meme of photos people have taken and share on their blogs.
In spite of the hectic holiday season in December, we managed to gather as friends on a couple different nights.
This is a picture of us at Italian Market in Italian Village. These friends were the parents in my homeschooling group. They were my village that helped raise my children, assuring me, cautioning me, loving me.
Only one of these couples has a child they still homeschool, but that hasn't broken the bond of friendship.
It's so great that so many of us could enjoy each other the week after Christmas.

I hope everyone has an equally supportive group of friends that they see, if only occasionally, as we do. 

A Life Too Short

On Tuesday evening, as I arrived in class to teach, I pulled a folder from my bag and got a paper cut. I know, a paper cut, big deal. I popped the finger in my mouth and sucked on it, natural reaction for me. But I couldn't stop bleeding. The blood pooled under my fingernail and formed a ruby bubble on my finger. I wrapped a paper towel around it, but as I gathered papers to pass out to students, I left little blots of blood on the papers.
The paper cut wasn't a big deal, but it was a surreal end to a sad day.
That afternoon, I found out that Katie, a 21-year-old who grew up with my kids, had died.
When our family moved to Columbus in 1998, I attended a homeschool meeting. I walked into the meeting and gazed at the people sitting around the tables arranged in a U-shape. I chose the most "normal" looking woman and slid into a chair next to her. I had no idea that this woman would become one of my closest friends. Cathy, like me, had three children -- two girls and a boy. They were all close in age to my children.
We ended up become homeschooling partners, joining forces three or four days a week, as we explored different historical periods and of course allowed the children to run and play.
We had been searching for a church since we arrived in Columbus, and Cathy invited us to try the Newman Center on Ohio State's campus. We began going there and were welcomed into the church family there.

A few years later, Cathy convinced me to join her and start a new religious education program at our church -- Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. We went for weeks and long weekends of training, paying hundreds of dollars and spending hours creating the Montessori-based materials. We even fought with the church leaders about incorporating the new religious education classes.
Through it all, our children remained fast friends.
Then Cathy decided to have more children and put her older kids in school. Once she entered the school realm, we weren't as close, although we both continued to teach religious ed at church. Eventually, as my kids aged out, I stopped teaching. Cathy is there for a few years more as her two younger children still go through the program.
But this story isn't about Cathy, it's about her daughter Katie. When Katie was 2, she had a cancerous tumor somewhere around her rib cage. Usually, when these tumors are discovered, it is too late for the children already. But Cathy listened to Katie's 2-year-old complaints when she lay on her side or when someone picked her up. She took Katie to the doctor and insisted they check it out rather than shrug it off. And after a prayer service one evening, Katie's tumor stopped growing. During her childhood years, she had to have regular checkups to track it, but after five  years, those became yearly checkups.

In her high school years, Katie began having seizures. She was diagnosed with epilepsy. That meant trying to find just the right medicine to control her seizures, but not so much that she became a zombie. Through it all, Katie's giggle and slightly snarky comments as she raised her voice to be heard above everyone else would be the things that stood out.
Rather than being resentful of her younger siblings, Katie often held them when they were little and allowed them to climb her like a jungle gym as they grew older. She swam on swim team and played water polo, insisting on a normal life. She went away to college and moved into her own apartment.
We've grown away from the family, but I ran into Cathy in the grocery store in October. She filled me in on the family and said that Katie had an internship in Chicago this summer with a PR firm. She loved the job and hoped the company might hire her once she graduated college in the spring.
And then on Tuesday came the phone call. Katie had a seizure Tuesday morning and she had died.
I still can't quite grasp it, so I imagined that for her parents and her four siblings, they expect to hear her footsteps and a call of hello from Katie at any moment.
Grace was hit hard by the news. She and Katie were friends on Facebook, but those early years playing pioneer and teacher and Barbies, formed a bond that the two could always count on.
As a friend, I feel helpless. If I were a parent, my mind can't even fathom how I would feel.
I think about stupid arguments with children, worries about weight gain or girl fights.
I need to remember to focus on the important things in life, so I have no regrets. And I need to make sure I love the people around me because we don't know when those people will be gone.  

Reading Childhood

For the past few weeks, I had a machine that scans negatives into my computer. I spent a few days trying to capture my children's photo memories. Some of them turned out well, others had off colors.
As I had a chance to review the kids' childhoods, I couldn't help but notice how often we read books.
No matter who came to the house, they needed to read books with the kids.

Here's a teenage neighborhood boy reading to Grace dressed as a dog. 

Here's Spencer thrilled with a Castle book. 

Spencer reading Sleeping Beauty to himself in his toddler bed. 

My friend Pat from Florida reading to Grace 

Grace and cousin Abby momentarily distracted from their book. 

Grace reading Thomas the Tank Engine to Spencer.

Me reading to Grace and Spencer.

Our neighbor Barb reading to Grace and Spencer. 

I didn't finish scanning photos, so I didn't get to many of Tucker, but I needed to include him, not reading, but getting buried in the sand.

The next time I post about my kids, I'm going to show you why would should have known that Grace would be an actress.