* One more week in Collioure - Oct 07

Back from Tuscany, it’s good to be home. We have a week before we leave for the “new world” for the winter. We have had a marvelous extended summer (from mid-May to the end of October) in Europe and we’re beginning to list potential destinations for 2008 - Prague, Dubrovnik, Mikonos, Portugal - all easily accessible from our idyllic village of Collioure.

A surprise. When we meet with Madeleine to discuss having her open our apartment next spring, she tells us that Kristina and Tom, with Hanna, will be in Collioure the next day. It was Kristina from whom we first rented when we came to explore Collioure in 2005, and she was very helpful as we went about purchasing our own apartment. We exchange emails and arrange to meet for lunch on Sunday.

It is a spectacular fall day (Hanna plans to swim later), and our outdoor table at the Copacabana is perfect. Kristina and Tom both work for the US State Department in Moscow, and we share Russian experiences. Hanna goes to the international school and is an amazingly sophisticated (but still playful) young lady who is not yet nine years old. Tom has brought a bottle of Russian vodka which we manage to keep out of the waiter’s hands.

It will take us four days to get back to Key West.

• Day 1: train to Girona, pick up rental car, return to Collioure.

• Day 2: drive to Barcelona, stay overnight a hotel near the airport.

• Day 3: fly Barcelona-Madrid-Philadelphia-Fort Lauderdale, spend the night in a hotel near the airport.

• Day 4: breakfast with our friends Eileen and Ron, pickup rental car, drive to Key West.

* Tuscany - Oct 2007

Mon, Oct 15 to Sat, Oct 20

Leaving Florence was easy. We taxied to the Florence airport to get our rental car from Avis. There was some problem because Budget (Avis acts as the Budget agent in many locations, having purchased the company) listed the wrong car on the reservation. However, this was resolved by the Avis manager, and we were able to make two changes, drop off at Pisa airport instead of returning to Florence, and an extra day. This was much better than our original plan to drop the car at the Florence airport, cab to the Florence train station, train to Lucca, train to Pisa train station, cab to Pisa airport. What were we thinking?

OBSERVATIONS ABOUT RENTING CARS IN EUROPE:  Budget, which is never a problem in the US, seems always to be a problem for us in Europe. Hertz, which is often the most expensive choice in the US, is sometimes the least expensive choice in Europe. Avis personnel are extremely accommodating, and will work with you to resolve problems.

Finding our Tuscany villa, Borgo Argenina, was not so easy. For one thing, there was no street address, so we couldn’t put the location into the GPS. Then the map provided by the host was far from precise. It turns out there are kilometer markers every 0.1 km on Italian highways, but none of these was indicated on the map provided.

Once there, however, Borgo Argenina was marvelous. It’s an old villa, purchased 10 years ago by our hostess Elena, a woman from Naples, who renovated the house, brought in electricity and plumbing, built the dirt road from the highway, and opened a B&B five years ago. We have a large room with a large bathroom, and a tub! The view from the rear patio of the villa is spectacular - vineyards, mountains, a few buildings in the distance.

By the time we’re settled, it’s after 3:00 pm, and we haven’t had lunch. We’re not going to get lunch, either, since all restaurants are now closed until dinner at 7:00 pm. Our hostess’ daughter called the closest place, ascertained that the grocery store adjacent to the simple restaurant was open, and gave us direction. So we’re off to the tiny village of San Sano, a few km back along the road we had taken and high into the hills from there.

At the tiny grocery store, we purchased cheese sandwiches on baguettes, soda, and chips. The delightful older man scurries into the adjacent house to get the mayonnaise. We eat outside on a small table, watching the family putter in their lawn. Just as we finish eating, another couple arrives, American, followed by two more couples, also American, and we spend a delightful half hour sipping wine (sold by the glass from the grocery store) and talking. Eventually, the conversation gets around to my novels and for a few minutes it seems like a book club meeting.

We decide against dinner, and instead purchase more cheese, crackers, and a bottle of wine to take back to our room.

Siena is a beautiful medieval town, smaller than Florence, but on a par with its buildings, art and shopping. Elena has provided perfect directions for entering the city and finding the closest parking lot and escalator up five flights to the ancient center within the city walls. It’s still an upward hike from the top of the escalator through the narrow winding streets.

The famous town square, site of the Palio horse races, is huge, dominated by the government palace with its high tower. The Duomo is even more impressive than its counterpart in Florence. We have a substantial lunch in Siena and once again pass dinner.

The next day, we head for San Gamignano, having loaded both our destination and our departure point, where the dirt road meets the highway, into the GPS. The rest of the traveling world is familiar with GPS, but this is our first real use of it, so we still have the enthusiasm of novices. The GPS leads us through 50 kilometers of turns, obscure roads and roundabouts, a trip that would have been longer and stressful without it.

San Gamignano is famous for its 5-6 high medieval towers, built for defense and prestige by competing families. Of course there’s a government palace and a cathedral, every wall covered with great frescoes, one side from the Old Testament, the other from the New. The town is utterly charming. We meet a couple from California, who now live in Bucks County, and have a nice chat. This time, we limit our lunch, determined to go to at least one Tuscan restaurant for dinner before we leave. The GPS takes us home without incident or stress.

On the way home, we find Vecchia Osteria, one of the restaurants suggested by Elena, just enough off the road to miss it the first three times we pass. We try to call for dinner reservations, but the phones aren’t working. Elena explains that someone has “stolen” her number. We don’t really understand what she means, but she uses her separate fax line to make the reservation for us.

Later, when we’re leaving the villa, another couple (Don and Jan) is going to the same restaurant and they come with us. Two other couples are also eating at the same restaurant, and the eight of us are the entire business for Vecchia Osteria that night. The dining room is cozy, and the meals are ok but not spectacular. During dinner, we talk about a name for our GPS lady, and Don comes up with Gypsy (GyPSy). He has never used a GPS and is fascinated on the ride home in the dark at the way ever twist and hairpin turn is precisely shown on the screen.

On our third day, we explore the hilly countryside of the Chianti region. We go first to the charming village of San Guzme, and choose a restaurant for dinner. Then it’s up and up and up on winding narrow roads, until we drive next to a communications tower on the highest spot in the region. We must then come down, after which we have lunch at a monastery/winery. A tree behind the monastery walls has turned a spectacular yellow.

La Porta del Chianti in San Guzme is a great choice. The wine presentation was something to behold. We had each ordered a glass of the local Chianti Classico, from the vineyard next to the restaurant. The waiter rolls up a small table, on which he places three glasses and one open bottle. There is a ritual from glass to glass, swirling, and he tastes. When he is satisfied, he pours a small amount for me to taste. the whole thing is theatre and the wine is excellent. So are the meals.

Our second visit to Siena is just one of those perfect days. Veterans now, we find the parking and escalator and enter the medieval city. We wander a bit, find the synagogue which is closed, enjoy the long view from the medieval market square behind the government building.

Then we go to an unusual site described in the National Geographic guidebook, the Siena Archives Office. Here are stored the official records of Siena from the 13th century on, in cardboard folders on shelves. But … each year’s record book was decorated with a wooden cover on each of which is a colorful, detailed painting. There are hundreds of them and we wander, enthralled.

There are also documents available for view. One is a letter signed by Boccaccio. Another is an original page of the Inferno handwritten by Dante. No photos are allowed inside, but I ask if I can take pictures from the window overlooking the Campo square. The guard, a woman who has proudly shown us the Boccaccio and Dante, now takes us to a tiny, somewhat precarious balcony overlooking the square, a spectacular vantage point that would no doubt cost a fortune during the Palio, the twice annual replication of the medieval horse race for which Siena is famous. We stand open-mouthed at our good fortune and I take many photos in a short period of time. Later, we learn that another couple at Borgo Argenina saw us on the balcony and wondered how we got there.

We luxuriate with a light lunch in the sunny square, then go to the Museo del Duomo. Again the art is spectacular, especially a large round stained glass window, brilliantly colored. The difference is that we view it straight on, instead of the usual 100 feet above us in a church wall, so we can see all of the details.

On our last night at Borgo Argenina, Elena cooks dinner for 14 of her guests and serves it around the heavy wood table in her authentic Italian kitchen (where the modern appliances are cleverly hidden behind doors or curtains). Salad, pasta with red sauce, beef, pork sausage, wine, crème pudding. She presents a special non-meat platter for Pat, having learned earlier of her preferences. Everything is cooked and served in the traditional Tuscan manner. Elena is the perfect hostess, serving and eating with us, explaining each dish. It’s also a chance for lively conversation with the other guests, all of whom are American. 

We drive to Lucca (about 2 hours), park, and enter the medieval town via a narrow double passage through the town walls. The town is a delight, the old buildings, narrow streets, sudden squares, many shops and restaurants. We find an excellent place for lunch.

The drive to Pisa takes another hour and we have plenty of time to see the Leaning Tower. Except we can’t find it. There is one sign, but no followup. We enter something in the GPS and it takes us to one way streets we can’t enter, the only time Gypsy has failed us. We spend a frustrated half hour, laugh at the story we have to tell (knowing how others will laugh when they hear it), and drive to the airport.

“Did the tower fall down today?” we ask.

“No, it’s there,” the Avis attendant says.

We fly Ryanair to Girona, arriving too late to get to Collioure, and spend the night in the excellent Novotel. The next morning, we train to Collioure.

* Florence - Oct 2007

Collioure to Florence - Mon, Oct 8

Our 7-stage transportation odyssey from Collioure to Florence is less stressful than we have anticipated. This is mainly due to the fact that we have the right luggage: 2 large “spinner” suitcases, 2 carryons, one a roller which holds the other, plus a camera bag and pocketbook. Last year we really struggled with less mobile luggage.

Still, the trip is not easy … train from Collioure to Perpignan (20 minutes), train from Perpignan to Girona in Spain (1.5 hours), shuttle bus from Girona gare to airport (20 minutes), Ryanair to Rome (1 hour 10 minutes in the air), bus from Ciampino airport to Termini train station in Rome (30 minutes), train from Rome to Florence (1.5 hours), taxi from train station to the Hotel Casci (5 minutes). We left our apartment in Collioure at 7:00 am and arrived at the Casci at 8:30 pm.  We check in, and go right to sleep.

Travel Note: on the train were two couples who had come on the train from Venice to Rome, missing their stop in Florence, and were heading back. We made sure they got off in Florence this time.

The Hotel Casci is next door to the Palazzo Medici, my main research destination in Florence. It’s 5 minutes to Piazza del Duomo, another 5 to Piazza della Signoria, another 10 to Ponte Vecchio - Perfect! Our room is spacious and clean, with a reproduction of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus over the bed. We’re on an inner courtyard which is perfectly quiet at night. There is some construction going on during the day, but we’re not usually there at those times.

The Casci is family run, and everyone is very friendly and helpful. They always followup to ask if our restaurants, opera, etc, were ok, gathering information for future guests. Breakfast is included, with plenty of rolls, coffee, cake, cereal. I try café au lait and stick with it for the week. We think the 150 euros a night is a good value.

Tue, Oct 9 - Mon, Oct 15

We used National Geographic and Frommer’s Florence/Tuscany guidebooks, and they were excellent, so our comments will be mostly limited to our personal impressions.

The Piazza del Duomo is utterly stunning, with the enormous 12th-15th century Duomo (Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore), Baptistery, and Campanile in immediate proximity to each other. Brunelleschi’s dome, Giotto’s bell tower, Ghiberti’s doors, all just as they were in 1478 (the year my new novel begins in Florence).

Piazza della Signoria is equally impressive, with the massive government palace, the Palazzo Vecchio, and Loggia della Signoria taking two sides of the irregular shaped square, and large palazzos most of the rest. The Uffizi Gallery, originally a 16th century office building, is connected to the Palazzo Vecchio (government center) which it served.

The Palazzo Medici is a major location in the new novel I’m working on. We enter through the massive gates on Via Vavour (Via Larga in 147 and enter the courtyard, which is the site of an early-scene football kick around between Lorenzo de Medici and his brother Giuliano. I’ve drafted the scene, and now it comes to life. I imagine Donatello’s David, long since removed, in the center of the courtyard, hear Lorenzo laugh as he kicks the ball through an upper floor window at the crowd the brothers have attracted.

The Palazzo Medici today is not what it was in the 15th century, since it was expanded by the Riccardi family in the 17th century. Along the front façade, there are now 17 windows, of which only 10 existed in 1478. The original palace was roughly square, with stables and other working areas where the Riccardi addition now sits. The addition to the façade is done so well that it is impossible (for me) to see any line of demarcation. Of course, it’s been 300 or so years since the addition, so the weathering has had time to blend.

I spent a lot of time figuring out the interior dimensions and rooms as they would have existed in 1478, returning to the Casci to draw possible floor plans, and then back to the palace to check my plans, running back and forth between the floors until I’m satisfied.

Jewish Florence. About a month before we went to Florence, I emailed Templo Israelitico (synagogue), asking about 15th century synagogues. Signora Lionella Viterbo responded, told me there were no synagogues as such in 1500, and suggested I take the tour being given in conjunction with a conference on Ethiopian Jews.

The tour guide (Giovanna) led us to many sites, some of which had residual evidence of the small (75-100 persons in 1500) Jewish presence, and others which could suggest what the streets and buildings looked like then. I used a digital dictating machine to take notes as we walked, and to record some of the guide’s comments. These notes were later transferred to my computer as small audio files.

At the end of the tour, I introduced myself to Giovanna, explained my purpose, and we exchanged cards. She said to call while we were still in Florence, which we did, inviting her to dinner on Saturday night.

The Monastery of San Marco, now a museum, is as sumptuous a monastery as you’re ever likely to see. It was fully renovated by Cosimo de Medici in the mid 1450s, in return for papal forgiveness for all of his sins, mainly usury. The Dominicans complained about living in such splendor, with a priceless Fra Angelica fresco in each cell, but the bargain had been made with Prior (later Archbishop and still later Saint) Antonino, and they suffered through it.

On the first level are two quiet and elegant courtyards, for the monks to walk in and meditate, decorated with marvelous frescoes, as well as a VIP dining room (now the gift shop) and the less elegant room where the monks took their meals.

Cosimo had his private two room cell at one end of the second floor cells, which he used as a retreat. San Marco is just a five minute walk from the Palazzo Medici, perhaps longer if, as Cosimo did, you suffer from the gout.

Giroloma Savonorola, ultimately a mortal enemy of the Medici and their successor as ruler of Florence (until he was himself burned at the stake by the Borgia Pope Alexander), occupied a three room cell when he became Prior of San Marco. His cell is as far as possible from Cosimo’s, although Cosimo was long dead when Savonorola moved in.

Paolo at the Casci made a reservation for us at the Galleria degli Uffizi. It was difficult to find the place to retrieve the reserved ticket, and there’s still a line, but it’s better than an even longer wait if you come without a reservation. The gallery, however, was a disappointment to us. The Botticellis are magnificent, of course, but they’re darker than the reproductions you see and not well lit. After that, it seems like an endless procession of one Madonna and child after another.

We saw two operas in Florence - La Traviata & La Boheme - an unexpected and delightful treat. They were held at St. Marks English Church, with 100% of the proceeds to benefit children in a village in India. The church is contained in an ancient palazzo, with vaulted ceilings and frescoed walls. It’s set up as a theater in the round, with a small stage flanked by seats on three sides and the altar on the other.

Each performance featured four singers and a piano player, with introductions and between acts commentary. The main voices (Violetta and Mimi) were magnificent, and the supporting men were also terrific. Between acts, we met the man who played Alfredo and learned it was his first performance.

Fiesole is an ancient village on a hilltop overlooking Florence. Could anything be more romantic? The Medici Villa at Fiesole is now in private hands (the Martini family, which apparently owns half of Florence) and you have to email to make an appointment. They return the email promptly.

You can walk around the gardens and view the outside of the villa, but cannot go in. Still, I got a good sense of the building and surroundings in which Lorenzo often entertained the scholars of the Plato Academy, which I will describe in my book.

Nearby is a Roman amphitheater, two millennia old, with seating for 3,000. I have written a scene where my lead character, Benjamin Catalan, is taken to this amphitheater by Giuliano de Medici for some serious conversation, and I sat on the steps where I imagined them to have been, seeing what they saw.

The Galleria dell’Academia is most famous for Michelangelo’s David, but my favorites there are the unfinished statues, where you can almost see Michelangelo at work, the figures partially emerging from the stone block.

The Pazzi family was at the center of the 1478 assassination of Giuliano and attempt on Lorenzo. Subsequently, all evidence of the Pazzi family was erased from Florence, the men executed or exiled, the women forbidden to marry. But the city map shows a Palazzo Pazzi, and, lo and behold, it’s really there. It’s an imposing building three story building around a courtyard, although much smaller that the Medici home.

When we arrived, the gate was open. A man said it was private property and we couldn’t enter, but a women overheard my author’s plea and let us in. Then two other women wanted to know all about the book, and were disappointed when I explained that it wasn’t yet written. It was extraordinary and unexpected to stand in that courtyard and imagine Jacopo de Pazzi riding his horse into it, frantic after the failure of the attempt to kill Lorenzo and fleeing for his life (he didn’t make it and died a gory death).

The Capella Brancacci on the other side of the Arno River (Oltrarno) contains the frescoes by Masaccio that changed the entire direction of Renaissance art. Painted early in the 15th century, 70 years or so before Michelangelo, and studied by Michelangelo when he was a child, these are the first examples of both rounded, realistic figures, and perspective, contrasting sharply with the flat paintings which came before. Not much is known of Masaccio, who died at the age of 27, but his work is thrilling to see, especially since you can get very close to it.

The chapel is set in an extraordinary church, the Santa Maria del Carmine, rebuilt after a devastating fire in the 17th century, with soaring vaulting ceilings covered with frescoes. Florence has so many spectacular churches, but this is one of the best. Standing there, looking up, we consider the substantial resources of money and time and artistic talent which led to these extraordinary places of worship.

On Sunday morning, we go to mass in the Duomo. When we travel, we often go to church or synagogue, since Pat is Catholic and I’m Jewish. This mass, however, has special meaning for me since this was the actual setting, on April 28, 1478, for one of the major scenes in the historical novel I am currently writing.

So as Pat follows the mass, my mind’s eye can’t help seeing the assassins take their places, eyes darting, tension mounting, while the unsuspecting Medici brothers nod pleasantly to those around them. The signal for the simultaneous attack on Lorenzo and Giuliano was the raising of the host, which unleashed a violent carnage not ten feet from where we are sitting.

In 1478, the panicked worshippers ran from the cathedral, but five hundred thirty years later, Pat and I sit quietly until the mass is concluded.

At the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, we saw Donatello’s David under restoration. It is lying on its side, on the same second floor space where it is usually displayed, while artists work in full view of museum visitors. A video explains the restoration process.

The church of San Lorenzo, just around the corner from the Palazzo Medici, was the family church of the Medici family in the 15th century. It is plainer than many churches in Florence, without the pomp of the Duomo, but there is a majesty to its simplicity that somehow evokes the similar qualities of Cosimo de Medici, who was instrumental in its restoration. Adjoining the church is the impressive library containing many of the manuscripts collected by the Medici family in the 15th century.

There are many excellent restaurants in Florence. Here are four recommendations: Cammillo on Via Borgo San Jacopo and L’Osteria di Giovanni on Via Del Moro, recommended to us by our friends Barre and Pamela; Trattoria 4 Leoni at Piazza della Passera where we dined with Giovanna, the guide to Jewish Florence, and Trattoria Nella on Via delle Temme, which we wandered into.

Shopping in Florence varies from the most elegant array of designer shops, one after another on so many different streets, to the boisterous bargaining of market stalls near San Lorenzo, in the Piazza della Republicca, and many other locations. Fine Italian leather is available in a huge range of prices. I buy two belts and a wallet. Pat adds to her collection of shawls.

* Living in Paris - 2007

If you’re expecting a tourist’s guide to Paris, we recommend Rick Steves or Pauline Frommer.

What we did was spend a wonderful 10 days in Paris without ever going to a single museum or any other major attraction. Our objectives, and they were many, all had to do with learning how to live in Paris. We explored where to shop, where to get an American breakfast, where to get our hair cut, and many other essential elements of six months abroad which are not available in Collioure.

Then, later in the month, we returned to Paris so Pat could run the Paris to Versailles ten mile race.

Saturday, Sept 1

We took an 8:30 train from Collioure to Perpignan (20 minutes) then had an hour wait which we filled with breakfast at the restaurant across from the gare (train station). From Perpignan to Paris, we went 1st class on our half-price senior fares, arriving at Gare de Lyon and taking a cab to our home exchange apartment.

Our accommodations were a home exchange in the heart of Paris, on rue de Tempe at the edge of the Marais district in the 3rd arrondissement. Upon arrival, we had the great pleasure to meet our exchange partner, Robert, who had mistakenly purchased train tickets for the following day. He had another place to stay the night, but we spent a delightful hour being entertained by descriptions of his long career as an actor and director on stage and in film.

The names Marcel Marceau (who died a few weeks later), Robert de Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Stella Adler, and Lee Strasbourg, among many others, just rolled off his tongue. Robert told an incredible story of a lifetime in theatre and film, up to the present when he runs a training school for actors in Paris and New York.

A picture of his daughter’s christening included the godparents James Baldwin and Ava Gardner. Prior visitors to the apartment included Allan Ginsburg and Salvatore Dali, and there was a very small, autographed, nude photo of Marilyn Monroe hanging unobtrusively on the entrance hall wall. Far from unobtrusive, however, were the many explicitly nude drawings and photos of women of many shapes and sizes. The other dominating aspect of the apartment were the books, which filled shelves on every wall and cabinet, including the entire wall in the WC.

When Robert finally escaped our delighted questions, we walked in the Marais, an exciting area of Paris, and had dinner at an outdoor restaurant.

Sunday, Sept 2

Pat took her early morning run down Rue de Temple to the Seine and then along the river to the Tulleries, Champs Elysee and back. She has become very familiar with this route and for her it makes Paris a great running city.

Sunday is the best day of the week in the Marais. We used the occasion to learn about our new Garmin Nuvi GPS, and it was terrific all day. Highlights included Sasha Finkelsteins for bagels, Thanksgiving for American food, and the Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore (great selection of American titles), where we met a woman from Riga who has lived in Paris since WWII. I accepted her recommendation and purchased Irene Nemirovsky’s 1930s novel, David Glover, which has been re-published since the huge success of her posthumous novel Suite Francaise, written shortly before the author was deported and murdered at Auschwitz.

I decide that what I’d really like for dinner is a hamburger. Pat is immediately on the web and soon announces she has found the place. Breakfast in America is an American diner in Paris, with two locations, one in the Marais and one in the Latin Quarter. They serve real American breakfasts all day as well as hamburgers and other 1950s diner food. There was a short line at the tiny restaurant, but it was worth the wait.

Monday, Sept 3

Pat is on a mission, GPS assisted, to find every sporting goods store in Paris in search of ladies running shirts, power gels, and other necessities. We find every one, but not so many ladies running shirts, perhaps explained by the fact that not many French women do much running.

We had dinner with Evan, with whom we did a home exchange last year. He is a delightful person, the brother of a friend in Key West. He is disappointed, however, that we have no visits from foreign acquaintances. Last year, while having wine with Evan, Russian friends from Moscow arrived to join us.

Paris has a new bike system, called Velib, and Evan helped us figure it out. It’s a brilliant idea. 20,000 bikes are place in a series of racks every 300 meters in Paris. You take a bike, ride to your destination, and leave the bike in another rack. The bikes themselves are outstanding, heavy and comfortable.

The system for getting the bikes, however, reflects the French passion for bureaucracy gone mad. There are 17 steps in the process, which requires a credit or debit card with an intelligent chip, so most American credit cards won’t work. Fortunately, my French bank debit card has a chip and does work.

There are issues with the system, such as how do you return a bike if the racks are full. It is also questionable if the goal of less traffic will be accomplished, since the bikes seem to replace walking and Metro, not the use of cars. However, it was fun and we did it several times during our stay.

Tuesday, Sept 4

We rode the train to Versailles and used our GPS to find the trailer (no electricity) which served as the headquarters for the Paris to Versaille 10 mile race. Last year, Pat planned to run, Maureen came over from New York to join her, and the race, which attracts 20-30,000 runners, was inexplicably canceled. This year, all attempts to register on-line have failed - perhaps the lack of electricity has something to do with that - so we trek to Versailles to register in person, cash only. There are three young guys hanging out in the trailer, and they give Pat two t-shirts from the 2005 race. They promise an email confirmation which never arrives.

We train back to the St-Michel stop on the Left Bank and find the Hotel Sully St. Germain on rue des Ecoles, where Pat’s daughter will stay later in the month. We lunch at the other (original) Breakfast in America, where the bacon is crisp, the eggs and potatoes are outstanding, and the deer and the antelope play.

After lunch, we explore Au Vieux Campeur. This the most unusual store you can imagine, since each department is in a different location, 2-3 per block for blocks on end, perhaps a dozen stores all together. We make a purchase in one store, but have to go to another to pay.

Pat has accumulated a long list of hair salons which promise to speak English. All the locations have been entered into the GPS, and off we go. We find the first address but no salon. They’ve moved. We call, using our new French cell phones, and get the new address, which is several blocks away. But on the way, we find and decide to try Franck Provost. There was in fact one excellent English speaker, and we both got terrific cuts (so we tell each other).

That night, we have dinner and great conversation with our Key West friends Rawy and Nijole, who also have an apartment in Paris, at an excellent restaurant in the Marais.

Wednesday, Sept 5

It shouldn’t be hard to purchase an external DVD burner. But I’ve been to a series of stores, all of which carry the item and all of which are out of stock. Finally, at Les Halles, which is generally a dismal shopping center, we find a very large computer and appliance store and purchase the elusive DVD burner.

We lunch at a sidewalk restaurant in the Latin Quarter, meet an Australian girl who has loved her week in Paris, and skip dinner for cheese & crackers in the apartment.

Thursday, Sept 6

We search for more stores, including Bon Marche, and have lunch at The Real McCoy, another American style restaurant. Back across the Seine, we rent bikes and ride to the Tuileries, where we have some difficulty finding an open rack to return the bikes. There is, on the web, a continually updated list of all locations, including the number of bikes available and the number of open spaces for return, so if you have a blackberry or iPod with you…

We eat at Au Gamin de Paris on rue Vieille du Temple in the Marais. We had lunch at this friendly restaurant last year, and dinner is just as good.

Friday, Sept 7

WH Smith is a great English book store on rue de Rivoli. Despite bringing close to 100 books with us in June, and buying more in Ireland in July, and several at the Red Wheelbarrow, we are running low.

If you saw Something’s Gotta Give with Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, and Keanu Reeves, you saw the Grand Colbert. We followed the GPS directions, and later learned how easy it is to find behind the Palais Royal, and met the waiter who served in the movie. This will be on our 2008 Paris list for dinner.

You cannot buy a Paris Metro ticket with a credit card since it doesn’t have a memory chip, but I can use the debit card from my French bank. It seems there’s no such thing as a French credit card, although almost every store and restaurant accepts American credit cards … can that be true!

The Hotel de Ville, Paris’ city hall, is a spectacular building which sort of anchors the Marais to the right bank. I read somewhere that the inside is as opulent as the exterior. Tonight, however, the focus is on the large plaza, where a huge screen has been set out to view the first game of the Rugby World Cup, featuring France versus Argentina. We stop for the beginning of the game on our way to dinner, and head off for dinner.

Every Friday night Paris hosts several thousand roller-bladers on a police escorted romp through the city streets. The route is published every Thursday on the web, and we head through Isle St. Louis to the Pont Sully and Boulevard Henry IV.

We’re early, so we sit on bench and enjoy the cool Paris evening, wondering how the considerable traffic coming off the road along the Seine will be managed. Quite easily, it turns out. At 10:20 pm, Several police on motorcycles, and some on roller-blades, arrive and block the intersection. Two thousand roller-bladers arrive a minute later, pass on quickly, and the road is re-opened. No problem.

Walking back to our apartment, we return to Hotel de Ville for the sad ending (France lost). The large crowd is very well-behaved crowd, many sitting on a lawn of artificial grass laid for the occasion.

Saturday, Sept 8

Today is our 23rd wedding anniversary. Pat celebrates by extending her run to 9 miles, in preparation for the Paris to Versailles 10 miler later in the month. She runs from our apartment on Rue de Temple all the way down the Champs Elysee to the Arc d’Triumphe, and then back.

We have a romantic, candle lit dinner at Coupe Chou, recommended by our friend Carol and also by Anne, our Mexico exchange partner who came to Paris in April before going to Collioure.

Sunday, Sept 9

We ride our rented bikes along the Seine, return the bikes and enjoy petite de jeunier with croissants, baguettes, juice, coffee and tea. It’s 19 euros for two, and we realize what a bargain Collioure is – same breakfast for 12 euros.

Marche de Saint Catherine is one of the few remaining village squares in Paris. Difficult to find, it is worth the effort. We have a very pleasant, informal dinner in an enchanting setting, then pack and get ready to leave in the morning

Monday, Sept 10

Monday morning rush hour and we have difficulty getting a taxi, risk missing our train even though, as always, we have allowed extra time. A friendly lady in the jewelry shop calls a taxi for us, but it doesn’t arrive. She keeps checking on us, calls again, and receives promises but no taxi. Finally, a taxi discharges a passenger and takes us on. We arrive at Gare de Lyon in plenty of time for our 11:24 am train.

Saturday, Sept 29

Nineteen days later, we take an early train to Perpignan. The restaurant across the street isn’t yet open, and we join exactly the collection of scruffy characters you would expect find at 6:30 am in any train station café in the world. We escape as soon as possible and board the waiting TGV to Paris. Since we have our Carte Senior and get 50% discounts, we are again going 1st class, and it’s wonderful.

From Gare de Lyon, it’s a quick 10 euro taxi ride to Hotel La Perle in the 6th arrondissement. A really nice small hotel, our room is “Paris small,” but well laid out and quite comfortable. The neighborhood features St. Sulpice (of Da Vinci code fame), some excellent upscale shopping, many fine restaurants (including the famous Cafés Flore and Deux Magots a couple of blocks away), and all the delights of the nearby Boulevard St. Germaine and Latin Quarter. There’s even a Ben & Jerry’s.

We’re in and out of the hotel, walk a few blocks to the Metro, and head to the Race Expo. It’s Building 5.1 in a huge complex, not well signed, but we find it, and Pat gets her number and chip.

“You can keep the chip when the race is finished,” she’s told, but the brochure says there’s a 15 euro charge if you do, and in fact there were very serious people collecting all chips just past the finish line.

The Expo is a collection of booths promoting other runs, and there are a goodly number of half marathons to consider for 2008 and beyond. There are no 2007 Paris to Versailles t-shirts, so it’s doubly good that Pat got two 2005 shirts when we went to Versailles earlier in the month to register. A race without a shirt! In New York, there would be a revolution.

Dinner at Monteverdi. It’s our third time at this delightful Italian restaurant just around the corner from La Perle, and all have been excellent. We ate there last year with Maureen and her sister after completing the “Not Paris to Versailles.” Pasta for Pat, of course, and just a wee glass of red wine. The streets are filled with Rugby fans, better behaved than expected, and every bar is set up to show the games.

Sunday, Sept 30

After weeks of worrying about the weather, checking every day to get forecasts of cold and rain, the day of the race proves to be perfect, cool and sunny. We chose a cab to the Eiffel Tower, rather than two Metros, and arrive 20 minutes before the scheduled 10:00 am start.

There are thousands of runners assembled, and Pat heads, as all runners do, to the portable potty line. The French have added a new wrinkle – a 4-sided urinal, next to the other enclosed toilets, this one completely open to all viewers. It’s hard to know why they even bother, however, since the road before and after the start line was lined with men peeing at every tree, bush, and blade of grass.

Except for the elite runners at the front of the pack, all others are first come-first serve, so there is a considerable mixing of fast and slower runners. Pat was probably in the first 25%, but after 2-3 kilometers, the runners were all sorted out.

The early kilometers are through the streets of Paris, neither attractive nor awful, and interesting to Pat since she has not seen this arrondissement before. Then comes a huge hill, 1.2 miles, which she mostly walks. After that, it’s a terrific run through the forests (formerly the hunting preserves of the king) and into Versailles.

Meanwhile, I had taken the RER train to Versailles, had a long conversation with a couple from Vancouver experiencing Paris for the first time, and positioned myself on runners left about 100 feet from the finish line. Using our new French cell phones, Pat called at kilometer 10 and again at kilometer 15, and she arrived about 10 minutes after that, an overall 12 minute (per mile) pace.

Typical French approach to collecting the chips. One person cuts the plastic strap and then gives the chip back to the runner. You think it’s yours? A few steps further on, there are people collecting the chips. Why two stations? Because the French will never have any person do more than one task. Why employ one when six can have jobs, even if they’re volunteers?

We walk to the train station and catch the Metro back to Paris.

If there’s a better time and place than Sunday afternoon in Paris, we haven’t found it. We walked through the Latin Quarter, across to Notre Dame, around Isle St. Louis, and over to the Marais for a cool drink at the Place de St Catherine, the utterly charming square we found earlier in the month. On the way back, the outdoor screen at Hotel de Ville is showing the Rugby World Cup match between Ireland and Argentina to a crowd that fills the plaza and the huge carpet of artificial grass.

We planned a special dinner at Le Procope, the oldest café in Paris and a place we had first enjoyed on our first trip to Paris in 1988. The ambiance is wonderful, as is Pat’s meal. Mine, however, is another story. Steak medium-well apparently means pink to the French, so I send it back. Pat says it’s my fault, that the blank look on the waiter’s face means he doesn’t understand my instructions, and that it’s a hopeless cause to expect a steak cooked the way I want it.

This doesn’t excuse, however, the three times we had to ask for a carafe of water, or the waiter slamming the salt and pepper on the table after the second time we asked for that. Third time we’ve been to Le Procope, and the last.

Monday, Oct 1

A wonderful morning. Breakfast at the café on the corner across from St. Sulpice. A walk across to Isle de Cite, on the same street, rue Dauphine, and past the same Hotel Dauphine that are featured in the book I’m currently reading, Alan Furst’s The Foreign Correspondent. A tour of the Conciergerie, including Marie Antoinette’s cell, which is Pat’s current reading. Back into the Latin Quarter for lunch, raclette and fondue. To the hotel, gather our bags, taxi to Gare de Lyon.

The train ride home is another opportunity to enjoy the spectacular French farm country. France is a beautiful place, and the view from the upper deck of a comfortable train is great.

    

* Chambon-sur-lignon - Aug 2007

                          

Nobody asked who was Jewish and who was not. Nobody asked where you were from. Nobody asked who your father was or if you could pay. They just accepted each of us, taking us with warmth, sheltering children, often without their parents,children who cried in the night from nightmares.

After the collapse of French forces, the Nazis occupied much of France and controlled it all. Soon, the Germans brought their hunt for Jews to France. Many were rounded up, transported, and murdered. The French Vichy government generally collaborated with the Nazis in this activity, sometimes seeming even to exceed the German enthusiasm.

There were, however, many individual French men and women who did not bend to the despicable German demands. Some helped Jews (and others) escape over the Pyrenees mountains to Spain. Others hid Jews, sometimes for years. Some blew up and shot Germans. These people are known as the French resistance.

In a small remote mountain village called Chambon-sur-Lignon, Pastor Andre Trocme, his wife, and many other local citizens determined to hide Jews, especially children and arrange safe passage for others. Their incredible story is told in a book by Phillip Hallie called Lest Innocent Blood be Shed. Pat read Hallie’s book many years ago, as has long wanted to visit the village. This week we did.

We took a train from Collioure to Valence, where we rented a car to drive west to Chambon. Michelin said the drive would take less than 2 hours, but the constant mountain turns slowed us down considerably. The scenery, to the extent we could look at it, was breathtaking. We stopped for an excellent lunch in the town square of L’amastre and learned once again that the French, even in the most remote villages, can do remarkable things with a piece of lettuce and some oil.

Somewhere along the way, we realized that our rental car had a GPS system, and we managed to get it on. Pat even changed the language to English. It showed where we were, but it wasn’t until the next morning that I figured out how to set a destination.

Meanwhile, it had started to drizzle, and by the time we reached Chambon, it was late and we were tired, so after a brief stop at the Tourist Office, we went to our Hotel Clair Matin (Clear Morning). It is up in the hills, set in a deep forest. But it wasn’t a clear morning, and in the deep mist was the eerie feel that German patrols were just out of sight.

In the morning, we drove 2 kilometers back down into the village, enjoyed the market day booths, and used the maps provided by the Tourist Office to find the locations where Jews had been saved. We purchased the DVD “Les armes de l’espirit.”

At lunch, we met a Belgian couple who had been at our hotel, and they decided to join us in a walking tour (in French) of the same sights we had seen in the morning. Dominique, who turned out to be an appeals judge in Brussells, translated the guide’s comments for us as we walked from place to place.

                                     

 We began at the railway station, where Jews from all over France had arrived in search of safe haven. Staring at the thin rails and the station, changed little if at all from 1943, we imagined the desperation of those who disembarked, there lives totally dependent on the assistance they hoped to get from the Protestant pastor and this largely Protestant community.

A few blocks from the station is a place that was home for many Jewish children, run by a Jewish man named Emile Seches.

M. Seches … “A policeman phoned me one day to ask me why I had not registered as a Jew. I answered him: It isn’t necessary, everyone in Chambon knows I am a Jew. I nevertheless had to see him. In large red letters, he wrote the word JEWISH on my identification card and on my food coupons card. The result was that, in order to visit my family in Saint-Etienne, I had to secure false papers.”

It is puzzling that known Jews in Chambon, and the thousands of others who passed through the village, whom the Nazis must have suspected were Jews, were with one exception, never rounded up and sent to the death camps.

In Hallie’s book, it is told that one day the local commandant came to Pastor Trocme and announced … tomorrow a bus will be here, and all the Jews must get on the bus, no exceptions. The next day, the bus arrived, and not a single person boarded. After several hours, the bus left.

But not all escaped …

On June 29. 1943, at dawn, the Gestapo arrested eighteen students as well as the headmaster, Daniel Trocme, Pastor Trocme’s cousin. They were all deported. Six returned to Chambon. Five young Jews died at Auschwitz and Daniel Trocme at Maidanek. No one knows what happened to the others.

Next to the school where so many Jewish children lived, there’s an old hotel, boarded up now, which was requisitioned for wounded German soldiers. We got chills imagining the soldiers glancing out their windows, seeing the children, doing nothing.

Around the corner and down a hill is the Protestant presbytery, built in 1842 on the site of the former lords of Chambon, home during WWII of Pastor Andre Trocme and his wife Magda. The sun is shining, the River Lignon flows gently below, and we are surrounded by the residual presence of the very best that civilized human beings can be.

Magda Trocme … “We simply tried to do our very best. There were people in the village who needed help. How could we not give it to them?”

Pastor Andre Trocme … “We are not aware of what a Jew is. We only know human beings.” 

               

Further down the hill is a primary school. Several of the students there were Jewish, but the head of the school, Roger Darcissac, “forgot” to enter their names in the registers. Inside the train station, there’s a photo of M. Darcissac (on the left) with Pastor Trocme, just an ordinary looking person, academic, forgetful. 

On the wall of a building across from the Protestant church, in a building which was a bakery during WWII but seems to be a private dwelling today, a plaque has been mounted, which says, in Hebrew and French, The memory of the just will remain for always, a quote from the 6th Psalm.

The people of Chambon have been recognized at the Yad Vashem holocaust memorial in Israel as among the many righteous non-Jews who helped Jews escape death at the hands of the Nazis.  

                       

 After the tour, we went to the train station where we were met by Madame Flaud, who created the memorial exhibition two years ago. She took us from photo to photo and explained each in detail.

There were quotes with each photo. Each calls forth a mixed response of gratitude, anger, and pride …

Pastor Andre Bettex, from the pulpit of the Protestant Church of Freycenet, a village near Chambon  … “The laws against the Jews are illegal. Our duty is to help them with all the means available to us. I urge you to do so.

Mireille Philip … “I feel humility and of gratitude in front of many of these refugees who became my friends. They were an example of dignity and courage.”

Hanne Hirsch-Liebmann, a survivor … “the people of Le Chambon believed we must all live together and even risk our lives for our fellow beings. They always shared with us, no matter how little they had.”

Elizabeth Koenig-Kaufmann, a survivor … “Le Chambon was different because of its religious ardor. The villagers read their Bibles daily and tried to live what the Bible taught them.”

Francois Levy-Lecomte, a survivor, in his book “I’ll never be 14” … “On September 9th 1944, a column of tanks. jeeps and trucks entered Le Chambon. The French soldiers gave us chocolate in brown wrappers, thick, huge chocolate bars. It was so good.”

… and so it was finally over. The people of Chambon and other nearby villages had saved perhaps 3,500 people, mostly Jews. I signed the visitor’s book at the station …

“It is our privilege to be in the presence of such goodness.”

We left Chambon, and drove further west. It was late afternoon, with the sun lowering in front of us, and the meadows and forests of the mountain country offered views perhaps as beautiful as any we had ever seen. Then we arrived in Le Puy, a center for pilgrims and hikers, perhaps the least attractive city in all of France. The GPS, however, worked perfectly, bringing us through the city streets precisely to our hotel. We thought how wonderful it would have been to have a GPS in Nice, where we had such difficulty finding our hotel, and decided to purchase a portable GPS when we got home.

And, even in Le Puy, there was something.

We were directed from our not lovely hotel to a small square and found a tiny restaurant, 4 tables downstairs, 4 more up, that looked worth trying. Pat wanted pasta, but not with the cream sauce it came with.

“Do you have a red sauce?” I asked

“No, but I have tomatoes,” said the young cook/owner. ”I’ll see what I can do.”

What he did was make a spectacular red sauce. I ordered salmon, and both dishes were as good as any other meals we could recall. Put this guy in a major city, and he would be rich. But maybe not happy.

The next morning, we drove back over the mountains to Valence, had a nice lunch at an outdoor restaurant on a broad avenue, did some window shopping, returned the car to Hertz, and took the train home to Collioure.

 

* into the Pyrenees

        

We enjoy the eastern foothills of the Pyrenees every day from our terrace, but we have long wanted to see the higher ranges to our west, stretching along the border between France and Spain.

There are excursions every week in the summer, listed at the Collioure Tourist Office, and each Friday, there’s a bus trip to Villefranche de Conflent, with English commentary. We almost never take bus trips, but the alternatives of driving or taking the train look too difficult (and more expensive) by comparison, so we decide to give it a try.

The bus leaves Collioure at 6:10 am, from the old tower next to the Port Duvall beach. We’re up before 5:00 am, breakfast, and walk over. Collioure in the cool morning is an absolute delight. Still dark but dawn is coming, dim lights casting a romantic glow, the town perfectly quiet except for the lapping of small waves along the beach. A couple is playing on the swings - out early or up all night?

Several others are waiting, and when the bus arrives early, our group is first on. There are 5-6 stops in and around Argeles to pick up additional passengers, and by the time all are on board, only a few seats are left. We’ve been driving north along the coast, looking at each coastal town, all larger than Collioure, more developed, not nearly as beautiful or charming.

We turn west and pass north of the city of Perpignan, the department prefect of our region (population 163,000), drive for an hour to Villefranche de Conflent (population 225). We’ll return to Villefranche as the last stop on our trip, but for now we go directly to the train station.

We’re early, so we have café au lait (pour moi), chaude chocolate (pour Madame), et deux croissants, in the chill of the mountain air. We’ll catch the 9:00 am le petit train Jaune (the little yellow train).

While we’re waiting, we read our books. I’ve brought with me Escape through the Pyrenees by Lisa Fittko, a heart-pounding account of this brave and resourceful woman’s successful efforts to save herself, and then perhaps 2,000 others, from the clutches of the Nazis after the French collapse in 1940. Much of this took place in the towns near Collioure - Port Vendres and especially Banyuls. It’s one of Pat’s favorites, and I can’t think of a better place to read it than driving up the very same Pyrenees mountains which was the escape route to Spain.

The first section of the train jaune route was completed in 1910, linking Villefranche with Mont Louis, which is as far as we will go today. It’s an impressive construction undertaking, including 650 engineering works along the 44 mile climb  - 19 tunnels and two remarkable bridges: the Séjourné viaduct and the Gisclard suspension bridge. 

We board the car set aside for our group, which is just about full. Pat and I sit next to a delightful French madame, who speaks just a very little more English than we speak French. She says she’s an auteur, Pat says so am I, and she is much impressed with Le Hérétique, says she is enchante to meet me.

I just read Somerset Maugham’s comment in The Razor’s Edge that “in France, an author just because he is an author has prestige,” written in 1943 but apparently still true.

As we climb, I realize we can’t see much if we stay in the car, so I move to the platform between cars, and Pat soon joins me. The views are astonishing, great vistas of mountains, rising high in the distance, and as we climb further, plunging away beneath us, some covered with trees, some huge expanses of bare rock. There are little station stops, tiny villages, and single houses perched at unimaginable heights.

The train is run by SNCF as a regular part of the rail system, and was created originally as a link to these mountain places. Now there are roads which follow the same general route, and most of the passengers are tourists. 

We exit train jaune at Mont Louis, which is roughly halfway up, a trip of 1 hour 20 minutes, and we’re back in the bus, which has driven to meet us. It’s 10:30 am, and there are several more stops in the morning, but our guide asks if we will join the group for lunch and she gives the menu of what we understand is their regular place. The alternative - we’ll drop you off somewhere in Spain and pick you up two hours later - is singularly unappealing, so we’ll join the group. 

We stop at a ski resort with a view of the highest mountain in the Pyrenees, and an old chapel with a fountain miraculously created by a statue of the virgin. The chapel features a stunning altar, with statues and ornaments in gold, by the same artist who created the even more sumptuous altar at the church in Collioure. 

We pass into Spain, a half dozen people leave the bus with nothing much in sight, and most of us go to Paller de Queixans, a restaurant situated in a completely new area of modern town houses which are vacation homes for wealthy Barcelonians, about 1.5 hours away.

Even as we enter the restaurant, we feel we have made the right choice. Our group of over 30 are the only customers. We’re seated at 6 round tables, Pat and I at a table where no one else speaks English. A friendly man announces the menu, in French, then gets his guitar and sings in Spanish, asking the group to join the refrain while waving our white napkins high over our heads. It’s fun. 

Waitresses move quickly to deliver plates filled with a thin pasta, cut into short lengths, apparently fried with mussels and other good things, served with sangria and then rose wine. We had seconds. Then came a serving of chicken, vegetables, potatoes, sausage, and who knows what else, some of which was excellent. 

Meanwhile, the entertainer was doing card tricks. Champagne was served, and we were shown the “calva” method of drinking from a long stemmed bottle, pouring a long drizzle from the upheld bottle into your open mouth. Several of our group tried it, more or less successfully.  Dessert was ice cream, with coffee, and then a choice of whiskey, cognac and vodka, all of which we declined.

All in all, it was a terrific meal, 16 euros each.  My credit card, however, did not process and I paid in cash.

The next day I called Citibank and found that they had not flagged the payment. In fact they had not received it, so it must have been a local problem at the restaurant.  

TIP: before setting out on any trip, it’s a good idea to tell your credit card issuer where you’re going to be, so they won’t set up roadblocks when they see purchases made in unfamiliar places. I had done that in May for the entire summer, and this call was just to confirm everything was properly in place, which it was. 

Again, of course, the value of Skype. Call anywhere, at 2 cents/minute. This call, 4 minutes, 8 cents. 

After lunch, Pat and I had a chat with our English speaking guide. She had been in Key West - it’s amazing how many of the French know Key West and have been there - as part of her year in America, based in DC, specifically to improve her English for this job. 

The first stop of the afternoon was a solar furnace, which we viewed from a hillside vantage point. Constructed in the 1950s for research purposes, its 860 parabolic mirrors and heliostat of 546 flat mirrors focus the sun’s rays into a to temperatures which can reach 3500 degrees centigrade. That’s hot! 

We drove down the mountain on a road that paralleled the train, so we could see where we had been, and the views were even more spectacular.  

When we were near the bottom, our guide told us about the maiden run of the yellow train in 1905. A select group of 6 was on board for the event, but the engineer drove too fast around one of the many curves and the train flew off the tracks, landing 80 meters down in a gorge, and everyone was killed. “That was the first and last accident with the train juene,” we were told, but I’m nevertheless glad she saved this particular information until after we had left the train. 

Villefranche de Conflent is a fortified town founded in 1090 by Guillaume Raymond, Count of Cerdagne. The remarkable old church within the walls was built in the late 11th and early 12th centuries. After the Treaty of the Pyrenees in 1679, the fortifications were improved by Louis XIV’s ubiquitous military engineer, Marquis Sebastian Vauban, who also expanded the castle in Collioure, all to defend against attack from the Spaniards to the south 

There are only two streets in Villefranche, but our 30 minute visit was well worth it. Old, old buildings, all shops now, narrow streets, water running down open culverts, a church as old as any we have ever been in, and witches, good witches. That’s all I know. Good ice cream too! 

We slept for most of the rest of the drive, back to Perpignan and then letting off the passengers, us last in Collioure at 6:30 pm. It was a good trip, and at 33 euros each, a terrific value.

* a day in Perpignan

      

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Collioure is a marvelous place, but shopping is not its strong suit. We decide to train to Perpignan for the day with a list of tasks. We take an early train, and the shops are not yet open, so we walk to the Palais des rois de Majorque, the palace of the kings of Majorca.

In the 13th century, Majorca ruled our part of France, and Perpignan was their center for this region. A palace was therefore built for their visits, taking 30 or so years, which is remarkably quick when you look at the size of the stones that were dragged up the hill. I take lots of photos and think maybe it could have been a site for a meeting between the representatives of Lorenzo de Medici and King Ferdinand of Aragon in the 1480s. “Could have been” is enough for my evolving historical novel.

Finding a hair salon is highest on our priority list, since Pat was not happy with the lack of attention paid to her color on her last visit in Collioure. We find a local Jean Louis David, which may be adequate, and then we stop looking, although we had a list from the yellow pages with us. Guess we’ll have to go back.

mobile phones 

French mobile telephones (nobody in Europe, except us, says cell phone) are next on our list. We go to the Orange store, this being the France Telecom outlet, and also SFR, which is the French representative for Vodaphone. At SFR, we learn that they offer phones and you can “top up” minutes on the internet, through the phone, or at any outlet.

But the minutes you but have a limited shelf life, use them or lose them, which is not what we want. Our objective is to have phones which we will use infrequently, and we want to buy a small quantity of minutes to last for several months.

Back at Orange, we select phones and make our purchase. Nokia phones, with instruction books in English as well as French.

The next day, setting up the phones, I learn that Orange “top up” minutes are also “use or lose.” It takes only a second to realize that the clerk in the Orange store is not at fault. She would assume that everyone knew how minutes were sold, so there was no need to spell it out. And we didn’t ask. My next reaction is to return the phones. But maybe that’s not going to solve anything either. The cost per two weeks, or per month, is not that great, and we can buy minutes for when we travel, since we have almost no use for mobile phones while we’re in Collioure.

After purchasing our phones, we head to Galeries Lafayette, but the only purchase we make is a small “Catalan” flag to complement the French and American flags we already have. Galeries in Paris is spectacular, in Montpellier it is outstanding, but here the architecture is sort of drab, and the merchandise is limited.

We have a nice lunch at an Italian restaurant, with a waitress whose mother came from Canada. We are impressed that the young girl moves quickly and is attentive, qualities which are not universal in France. We compliment her on her approach, and she says this is her first waitress job, and she’s still nervous. As if to prove her point, she spills a pitcher of water at the next table, drenching a man who, however, appears not to mind. You see, charm can overcome disaster.

We have other tasks to accomplish, but inexplicably, we just head back to the train station. We never look for another beauty salon or the picture frames we need.

trains & web schedules 

We are taking the 14:45 (2:45pm) train back to Collioure. I had purchased tickets for a later train but we’re ready to go earlier.

As the train is pulling in, Pat notices that the train board does not include Collioure. But I looked up this train on the web, on a search for ‘Perpignan to Collioure,’ and it had a departure time (14:45) and a Collioure arrival time (15:10), so up we go. 

As the train approaches Argeles-sur-mer, the stop before Collioure, and begins to slow down, I look for a conductor to confirm, just to be sure, that this train does actually stop in Collioure. But no conductor is nearby, and the train pulls out. It’s only 3 minutes from Argeles to Collioure, but in that interval, the conductor appears and informs us that the train does not stop again until it reaches Cerbere, the last stop in France, and not a place you want to linger.

We enter the tunnel before Collioure, there’s a brief flash of light, and we’re in the tunnel after Collioure.  We remember the Kingston Trio’s immortal song about the MTA in Boston, where you need(ed) an exit fee, and the poor man “would never return.” 

More to the point, I explain to the conductor that the web had stated a Collioure stop, and she, a lovely young lady with excellent English (“my boy friend is British”), writes a note on our ticket to her colleague in Cerbere that we should be allowed to return to Collioure without additional charge. In Cerbere, the colleague agrees and the return train is due to leave in 20 minutes.  

TIP:  The lesson is you cannot trust the web schedules completely. Always check in the station. 

This happened to me once before, when I was at the station trying to buy a ticket on a train which did not stop in Collioure. I thought that was my mistake, but now I think it probably wasn’t. I’m going to try to figure out if there is a way to read the web schedules that will reveal this kind of error.

* Ireland with the kids - July 2007

 

There is surely something magical about Ireland, a feeling I had even before marrying my wife of Irish descent. There is such a connection between the Irish and the U.S., and Ireland has had such a long history of mostly futile revolt against the oppression of the British - the history alone is a powerful draw.  

The glorious beauty of the country, all those shades of green (44), are enchanting. Or at least so I’m told, since my partial color-blindness may be limiting what I actually see.  

The Irish people are friendly, charming, and always helpful, although I’ve learned never to take the always vague travel directions offered by an Irish person. And now, prosperity has arrived for the first time in Ireland’s long history. Young people actually come to Ireland instead of leaving.

                      

 A major attraction of Ireland for us is “the cousins,” Pat’s relatives in Westport, and we’re looking forward to that visit at the end of the trip.

The only drawback is the weather. All that green comes from all that rain. It rains every day, usually a gentle rain that doesn’t last too long, but rain all the same. Never go to Ireland without a rain jacket and an umbrella.

Thursday, July 5, 2007

Driven by Ryanair’s ever declining luggage allowance, we’re getting better at taking less on our travels. This time we each pack one of our new Delsey four-wheel spinner suitcases, not nearly full, and each weighing slightly under the 15 kilo (33 pound) limit. I have my camera bag, Pat her handbag, and no carryons. 

Karen and Joe come up for some lessons regarding our apartment. We give them my “home exchange thesis” and everyone laughs. Then we spend a careful half hour explaining how to use the computer we are leaving for them. They know the basics but have never used Skype, and never heard of Slingbox. We instruct them and wish them well.

Lunch and a long walk in town, then up to our apartment for final preparations. I try to call my daughter Missy, who has just delivered her second child (my 4th grandson) two months early, but all I can do is leave messages. I talk to my son Jon, however, and learn that all seems to be going quite well, with less complications than her first son, also born two months early. 

We train to Port Bou, expecting an hour’s wait for the connecting train to Girona. But a woman runs out and tells us there is a train about to depart, and we rush across to the other platform and board.

In Girona, we take the bus from the gare to the airport. The Novotel shuttle has stopped for the night, but we take a taxi which Novotel pays for. A very comfortable room, a glass of red wine, and we are asleep. 

Friday, July 6, 2007

We breakfast at Novotel, shuttle to the airport, check in at Ryanair. We are expecting to pay 12 euros for each of our checked bags, but are not charged anything, unless it’s being added to our credit card. Something to check when we return to Collioure. (There was no separate charge on flight day, and I think the luggage charge was included when we bought the tickets on line) 

I’m reading Leon Uris’ mighty novel, Trinity, both to establish the mood for our stay in Ireland and as part of my study of novels, especially historical novels. There is much to learn from Mr. Uris, and I’ve decided to apply my method of listing scenes (on a spreadsheet) to Trinity. So after I read each section, first for the pure enjoyment, I am numbering each scene, identifying the characters and major topics, and entering all of this into my spreadsheet.  

Uris has done something very interesting with “point of view” in this book, alternating between Conor Larkin’s best friend Seamus O’Neill and an omniscient narrator for all of the scenes where Seamus is not present. This enables him to present all of the background history, and the inner thoughts of the other (mostly Protestant) characters, while still retaining the immediacy of Seamus’ first person point of view. 

The flight is properly uneventful, but the car rental from Hertz is not.

Again the problem is the Collision Damage Waiver insurance. I am informed when we pick up the car that Hertz is charging me an additional 25 euros, above the fixed price which I pre-paid and thought included everything but local taxes, for not taking their insurance. This is absurd, and I’m afraid that I lost my temper and made a scene, for which I was properly reprimanded later in the day.

I’ll call Hertz when we get back to Collioure, but for now I am thinking this is a royal rip-off. I think the car rental companies make a lot of money by grossly overcharging for collision insurance, and they don’t like it that Citibank and others provide the coverage at no cost to their cardholders. 

NOTE: Hertz is not much interested in my complaint and see nothing wrong with not telling me in advance that they will be charging me for something I didn’t get. Ridiculous!

Driving from Shannon to Adare has the expected confusions induced by the ridiculous Michelin directions, but we are better now at extracting the truth from the nonsense and we get there without major incident. 

Our B&B in Adare, the Berkeley Lodge, is lovely, and so is the town. We enjoy the church, where a wedding is taking place, and the shops, where Pat finds running pants and we buy a fly-swatter at the local hardware store. When you live in a village of no real stores, you buy what you can wherever you may be. We also find Listerine, not sold anywhere in France, and are delighted.  

Then we check out Lena’s corner pub, where we find the entire wedding party (minus bride and groom) occupying the time between ceremony and reception in the company of Mr. Guinness and his companions. There’s also a group from a local company doing a team-building project by figuring out the riddles of The DaVinci Code. It is incomprehensible, and probably a surprise even to Dan Brown, how much that book has invaded our society. In Paris, there are DaVinci Code tours, including at the Louvre. 

We dine at another local pub, enjoying the interaction between the proprietor and his guests, many of whom he seems to know quite well. The food is … well the food is Irish pub food. Enough said. Nobody goes to Ireland for the culinary experience. The potato salad is of course excellent, as is the beer.

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Pat finds a marvelous place to run, on the grounds of Adare Manor, which hosts a marvelous golf course, the home this year of the recently completed Irish Open. Gorgeous scenery and long flat roads. She returns exhilarated by her best run in months.

Meanwhile, I took a walk, photos of the church, and a brief conversation with the gentleman who was removing the very few pieces of trash from the main streets and sidewalks. 

Breakfast is wonderful. We’re given a choice of a variety of eggs, sides, and other dishes, and I believe we could have had them all if we had asked. Our waitress, who both cooks and serves us, thought my poached eggs on toast looked a little “small,” and convinced me to add a rasher of sausage.  

We’re the only ones dining at 8:00 am, although the B&B is full, so we have time to have a delightful chat. Ireland is changing, especially in the fact that immigrants are now coming to Ireland for the first time in its history, if we don’t count the invasions. Most are Polish, and they seem to be hardworking and well-liked. But still the mix of languages and cultures present new problems. 

Before we leave Adare, we drive through the Adare Manor grounds, so I can see the ruined castle and abbey. Then south for about an hour to Killarney. No problem until we actually enter Killarney, where the right turn we have to make to get to our rented home was eliminated last Christmas.

I take this personally, since I pride myself on being able to interpret the directions and maps and get us where we need to get. Pat points out that I have established an impossible standard, and that we need to just accept the fact that entering cities, any city, is going to be a mess.  

We find the Tourist Office, get a more complete map and better directions, and find the Texaco station where we are supposed to meet John King and Pat’s children at 3:00 pm. Now, however, Pat is worried that her kids will have the same, or worse, difficulties than we had, and that we will not get together as planned, an eventuality made more tense by the fact that none of us has a cell phone. 

However, that problem is for 3:00 pm, and it’s now just 12:30, so we drive back to the Tourist Office, find a parking space, and begin to explore the wonderful town of Killarney. Even though it’s not raining, we buy two small umbrellas.

At 2:45 we return to the Texaco station to begin worrying.  At 2:58, we spot Kerry waving from the passenger window, right where they are supposed to be at precisely the proper time. They had some difficulties, but Kerry apparently was a better navigator following the directions I had sent her than I was. John King shows up a few minutes later, and we’re soon in our home for the week on Ross Road. 

The house is part of a group of perhaps 20 homes, built as duplexes for “letting.” But now they are mostly owner occupied, just our two unit duplex still rented. We meet our neighbors. Kevin begins by kicking a soccer ball with a curly-haired girl of maybe 4 years old. Her parents arrive and introductions follow. They are from Glasgow, Scotland, having ferried and driven all the way. We expect to see them during our stay, but it turns out we don’t, except to give them our leftover (unopened) food when we leave. 

Kerry unloads all of the goodies she is bringing for us … outdoor food covers which Pat ordered from Lillian Vernon, the Sony laptop on which I am now typing this journal, and a digital voice recorder I want to use in Florence in October (a technique highly recommended by Elizabeth George for capturing the nuances of settings).

The four “kids” — Kevin and Dawn, Kerry and Susan — who have flown all night and then driven all day, sack out for a couple of hours. 

When they awaken, we all walk into town – it is, as advertised, about a 10 minute walk – and search for a restaurant. Our choice is Danny Mann, which promises live music. The food was ok, and the music was lively.

We’re joined at our table by a lady from Melbourne, Australia, visiting friends in Ireland. One of the great joys of traveling is meeting people from places all over the world and sharing experiences.  More and more, we see women traveling alone, like the lady. Her friend from Australia came to Ireland, met a guy and married. They started an internet company of some sort, and have made a ton of money. Now she’s off to Nice, to the home of a guy she met at a party. At least that was her story. 

Sunday, July 8, 2007

No trips today, just hanging out in Killarney. First thing, Pat and I drive to the supermarket and load up on basics for the week – paper goods, cereal, milk, coffee. There are two coffee machines. One is an American style drip machine, which takes forever to make two cups of coffee. There’s also a coffee press, but the filter is missing.

The next day, Pat finds the filter, I re-assemble the press, and we forget about Mr. Coffee. Much better. Now that I’ve learned to use a coffee press, I feel so European. 

Well, we don’t exactly hang out. We walk into town, rent 6 bikes at 12.50 euros each for half a day. As soon as we get the bikes, it begins to pour, and we pour into an alley for protection. The rain abates in a few minutes, and we head out into the national forest, the entrance being just 3 blocks from the middle of town. It drizzles, but it never really pours again, so we just continue.

                         

There’s one large hill. Kerry, who rides 150 miles on a weekend, goes right up. The rest of us struggle. Dawn and I walk the last 100 yards.  From the top of the hill, the broad vista across the countryside is well worth it.

Next we ride to Ross Castle. When we see it, Pat and I realize we’ve been there before, by boat across the lake. Outside the castle, we meet a group of junior high school students from Maryland and Pennsylvania, on a “People to People” trip. We talk to one of the teachers. It sounds like a fantastic program, exposing young people to other places and cultures and what is described as a life-changing experience.  

I’m thinking how much better off the world would be if our President had been exposed to other countries before he invaded them. 

Now it’s raining a little harder, but we have no choice. We take the wrong road and repeat a loop, but then get oriented and find the back exit to the park which is on the road back to our rental house. We’ll return the bikes tomorrow morning. 

We decide to cook in, so Pat and I return to the supermarket and buy pasta, sauce, hamburger, garlic bread and wine. I cook my pasta with meat sauce, at triple the usual quantity, and everyone eats and eats and we still have too much left over. 

Monday, July 9, 2007

The kids drive the Ring of Kerry, which they’ve all done before, except Kevin. But this trip is his graduation present, so off they go. Pat’s daughter Kerry is, of course, named after County Kerry, and her name is all over everything.

Pat and I head south to the third peninsula, the Ring of Beara. We take the wrong way out of Killarney and go the long way to Kenmare, then head around the northern edge of the peninsular. For the first several miles, we don’t see more than an occasional glimpse of the bay, our view more often blocked by trees. 

At our first stop, there’s a group of very young and very small children, about to head out onto the choppy water, in a stiff wind, in tiny sail boats. We ask their instructor if he expects them to capsize, and he says, “They’ll all be in the water in 15 minutes. It’s the best way to learn.”

The kids are wearing wet suits, but the water looks cold. They all get wet pushing the boats into the water, but we watch for several minutes and nobody capsizes. The two boats “manned” by girls do great, and the two boys (one very small and one very large) in the other boat have a hard time, but they get it going.

We follow the narrow road and the driving is difficult when cars come the other way. It’s even more frightening when trucks and buses come the other way. We reach a cove of surpassing beauty, alternating sun and clouds, and pause to enjoy, reflect, take photos.

At our lunch stop in Castletownbere, there’s a group of kids from Belgium, wearing Santa hats. They serenade us with “we wish you a merry Christmas,” and are excited to pose for pictures.

We work our way around the Beara loop. The hills, sometimes green and filled with sheep, other times a barren landscape of huge rocks, are spectacular. 

The “big” town on this loop is Glengarriff, and we stop to shop. I get a sweater and a Guinness coffee cup with a lid, just what I had been looking for. 

We complete the loop on the road we should have taken to get to Kenmare, and find that the route we did take, although longer in kilometers, was much easier driving and no longer in time. 

Pat and I are first back to the house, and wait for the kids to return from the Ring of Kerry. They arrive, excited by their trip, and we head into town for dinner. Another restaurant, not terrific, but the Guinness is fine.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The Dingle peninsula has perhaps the most spectacular scenery in all of Ireland. We drive in caravan, pass through Castlemaine, and stop at the overlook of the a spectacular beach, a long wide expanse of sand, with blue water and crashing waves, and the mountains of the Ring of Kerry across the other side. Other views include hillsides filled with sheep, and some cattle, ancient graveyards with Celtic crosses. 

We’re looking for signs to Dingle, but instead see signs to An Daingean. Most road signs in Ireland include place names in English and Gaelic, but here on the Dingle peninsula, the English has been eliminated, which is very confusing for tourists.

We begin to notice, however, several road signs where the word “DINGLE” has been spray-painted on. What’s going on? In the town, we see large posters proclaiming Dingle as a place “without democracy.”  

                       

While the others shop, I take a seat on a bench. I’m joined by an elderly gentleman with a cane who I learn is named Jack Farrell. I welcome him to my bench, which we soon decide is far more his bench, since he spends part of every day on it.

Jack explains that there was an election, and 95% of the people voted to have both names on the signs, but the powers that be decided otherwise, and one dark night the word “Dingle” was eliminated from all the road signs, starting the battle royal.  

This war of the signs and spray paint has been going on for almost a year, a local skirmish in the larger, nationwide effort to resuscitate the Gaelic language (forbidden centuries ago by the British), and Jack at least made no predictions as to how it would end. 

Dingle Town (or An Daingean - go ahead, pronounce it, I dare you) is as delightful as we remember it, with green hills peaking through between the old buildings, good shopping, and great pubs. 

The kids go off to complete the ring, including the Connor Pass, while Pat and I take the road back to Killarney. I’m not used to so much driving, it’s hard driving requiring constant intense concentration, and, quite frankly, I’m tired. 

We check our email at an excellent internet center in Killarney, where we receive daily updates from Karen and Joe, who seem to be enjoying Collioure. They’re playing with all our toys, making calls on