tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83368707909577101562024-02-18T19:30:10.262-08:00FRANCE BLOG CONTINUEDIrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-53018660751729022632014-05-26T12:54:00.002-07:002014-06-06T03:38:12.558-07:00RECOMMENDED RESTAURANTS IN THE LANGUEDOC: A PERSONAL GUIDE<div class="Standard">
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French diners value fresh ingredients, careful preparation, and putting aside sufficient time to enjoy a meal. As a result, you have to work hard to find a bad meal. We've never been disappointed, not even that time we wound up in a cheap little cafe in a backwater train station. But we reserve those restaurants listed below as our favorites. </div>
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1. <i><b><u><a href="http://www.hotel-residence.com/" target="_blank">Hotel Residence</a></u></b></i>, Nissan-lez-Enserune: Chef/Owner Philippe SANS is just one heckuva cook. The new dining room doesn't have the country/funky ambiance of the original but that's Bernadette for you, always looking to decorate. And yes, it's a bit more pricey than when they were building an audience. But it's about the food, isn't it. The website pictures a chef other than Philippe. We'll investigate.</div>
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2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><i><b>Le Patio</b></i>, Nissan-lez-Enserune: Also owned by the SANS', a delightful little place, less expensive than the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hotel Residence</i>,
to take lunch or dinner with friends. Fresh ingredients, well-prepared
and thoughtfully presented. In good weather, dine on the patio.</div>
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3. <b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><i>Le Provence</i></b><span style="font-size: 7pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">, Capestang: Another of those local joints with a charming
patio. The menu includes an earthy seafood soup for the brave, lots of
appetizers and entrees to choose from, and personal pizzas from a wood-fired oven (try the one
with </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">foies-gras</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">).</span></div>
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<span class="st"> 4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><i> </i></span></span><span class="st"><b><u><a href="http://www.restaurantleterminus.com/" target="_blank"><i>Le Terminu</i>s</a></u></b>, between the towns of Cruzy</span><span class="st"> and Quarante: This is a recent find, recommended to us by our Brit friend Miles. New young owners have turned this former train
station out in the country into a perfect spot to enjoy a couple of
hours in the sun sampling authentic country cooking. The 12 euro luncheon special of two years ago is now 16 euros. So it goes.</span></div>
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<span class="st"> 5.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><i> </i></span></span><span class="st"><i><b>Le Mewen</b></i>, Narbonne: A couple of blocks from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Halles, </i>Narbonne’s comprehensive and fascinating covered market, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Mewen </i>is an old-fashioned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">creperie</i> without frills serving both sweet and savory concoctions. Try the apple cider instead of wine. If you'd rather eat in <i>Les Halles, </i>you can't beat the tapas bar.</span></div>
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6.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><u><b><a href="http://auberge-de-la-croisade.com/" target="_blank">L'Auberge de la Croisade</a></b></u></i>, on the Canal du Midi, between Quarante and Ouveillan: This upscale restaurant is our special place along with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hotel Residence. </i>Your
host Bruno is multi-lingual, full of energetic hospitality, and the food is
to die for. There are those who say that the menu has grown a bit lazy,
but we don’t visit often enough to notice.</div>
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7.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><i><b>Hotel
Jalabert</b></i>, Ouveillan: This place is definitely NOT for everyone. A funky
old restaurant in a backwater hotel with exactly zero ambience, the
feisty old Madame will serve what she wants, when she wants. Service is family style. Madame has a
heart of gold, though, even if she’s missing most of her teeth; she’ll
take the time to cut the meat into bite-sized pieces for the ancient
villagers who have been her customers since the year the cow had a
two-headed calf. We love it. You’re likely to think I’m crazy.<br />
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<b><i>Abbaye Sylva Plana</i></b>: C<span style="color: black;">ute
tapas place attached to a winery on the outskirts of Laurens. Modern
décor. Good food. Reasonable prices for the quality except for the
wine. (Restaurant wine in bottles is always too expensive when
perfectly acceptable wine is sold in supermarkets for 3 Euros or so.
Rant over.) Cathey had the tapas menu, choice of three – a mini
Mason jar with a seafood soup that was pure New Orleans crawfishy,
marinated mushrooms, and peppers stuffed with the best bacalao that
Cathey has ever tasted. I had a superb duck breast and finished with
a nasty chocolate lava cake with whipped cream. Worth another visit.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><a href="http://www.auberge-st-martin.fr/" target="_blank"><b>Auberge de St.Martin</b></a></i>: Fine dining on a tree-shaded patio or in a formal dining room
in Beaufort outside of Olonzac. We were treated for lunch by Simon
and Julia along with their Australian friends from Capestang.
Beautiful setting. Comprehensive menu. Most of the party chose the
Menu Terroir at 23 Euros – choice of sardines or soup, trout or
lamb, and a hefty variety of interesting desserts. Cathey chose the
Menu du Jour, sardines to start, prepared differently than ours,
followed by artichokes stuffed with foie gras. All started with a
tiny sip of fish soup for an amusee. All prepared and presented
impeccably. Much of the cooking done on an open fire fueled by the
wood of grape vines. A destination restaurant to which we'll return.</span></div>
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Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-66127942316218803432014-05-24T07:13:00.000-07:002014-05-24T07:17:32.863-07:00QUARANTE VILLAGE PARK WITH PICSOur little village of Quarante has a small grocery store - the kind that's called a Mom and Pop operation in the States. Mom's always there. I've never seen Pop. Whenever we drive out of Quarante to head for one of the surrounding towns with more comprehensive shopping opportunities, an ATM (Quarante doesn't have one.) or a gas station (Quarante doesn't have one.), we pass a little park. There's a broad lawn - dogs not allowed - and just a few benches. So our curiosity was piqued when, on our way back from our walk to the cemetery recently, we came upon a sign that we hadn't seen before pointing the way to a different park on the other side of the village. We decided to explore.<br />
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The road to the park led through a <i>lotissement, </i>the French word for a housing development. You see, the French don't choose to bulldoze farmland in order to build houses or commercial centers. Their zoning laws (or the French equivalent thereof) essentially require that new housing be built on ground adjacent to existing villages where the necessary infrastructure can handle the growth. The result is compact growth dotted amid broad swaths of greenspace. Oh, those tricky socialist bleeding hearts.<br />
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But still with our American experiences in mind, as we walked up a hill past relatively new houses with relatively new cars parked out front, we imagined that the park to which we were headed was built for the youngsters in the neighborhood replete with playground equipment and, perhaps, a soccer field.<br />
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We were wrong.<br />
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I'd guess that the village bought or otherwise reserved the hilltop park property some time ago, perhaps decades before the <i>lotissement</i> was built. The pavement ends after the last house. A wide gravel path bordered by iris and other plantings winds up to the crest with two or three widely spaced streetlamps to light the way at night. At the top, a couple of benches look out over the village and adjacent vineyards, quite a view given that the park is on a level with the church and the <i>mairie, </i>always built on high ground in these little villages. And that's that except for what appears to be an informal fire pit for those willing to drag combustibles up the hill for a bonfire. Nothing fancy. Just a spot on high ground to catch a breeze on a hot summer night while you hug your honey.<br />
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We're SO happy that we live here.<br />
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<br />Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-67476651855697787882014-05-23T12:05:00.003-07:002014-05-23T12:06:25.977-07:00QUARANTE CEMETERY WITH PICS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Cathey and I had driven past the sign for the cemetery in Quarante on the back way out of town a time or two but we hadn't stopped. The other day, we decided to take a walk and see how it stacked up against the cemetery in Capestang, the first French cemetery that we explored and still a favorite. I wouldn't say that we are true cemetery aficionados. But we've enjoyed walking through several in our little corner of the world and we've never failed to be touched and amazed. We look forward to another tour of our local cemetery on All Souls Day. The plants and flowers brought by faithful family members are a riot of color among the cold granite.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The cemetery gate is understated, set back from a quiet street.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This monument greets you on the inside. I'll let the rest speak for itself.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-5747483805892808982014-05-17T06:31:00.000-07:002014-05-17T12:56:50.765-07:00SCHOOL CHILDREN AND THE ABBEY IN QUARANTEOur house in Quarante is on a quiet, pedestrian street. When sitting on our second floor patio (first floor for my European readers), we can hear the doors of our neighbors' houses open and close, their heated 'discussions' with their teenage children, their techno music, and the like. None of it is really offensive. For instance, the techno music that our closest neighbor enjoys only plays for 15 minutes or so in mid afternoon. We can deal with that. And the teenage boy across the alley is basically a good kid who helps his mom water the plants and oil the wooden shutters when he's not off riding motorcycles with his buddies.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTIPPhyphenhypheni-37FwFH60kTPCLFfz0e7Atg2WHJgUNbeDeQ0S8Kp1YUZ7lt7VskSZAyRHx_TRr9Qjj5A7icA3ycg3akW08tw7zg3Zq7o4yErFxmlVHh1Ueeyr0mykxSQYKZahSXfwZUI6-do/s1600/Abbey+in+Quarante.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTIPPhyphenhypheni-37FwFH60kTPCLFfz0e7Atg2WHJgUNbeDeQ0S8Kp1YUZ7lt7VskSZAyRHx_TRr9Qjj5A7icA3ycg3akW08tw7zg3Zq7o4yErFxmlVHh1Ueeyr0mykxSQYKZahSXfwZUI6-do/s1600/Abbey+in+Quarante.jpg" height="215" width="320" /></a><br />
So when a gaggle of elementary school children, maybe 8 or 9 years old, came babbling and laughing down our little walkway the other day at about 14:00h (2:00 PM for our American readers), we heard them quite clearly. We thought nothing of it. The school is only a few blocks away. There's a park within walking distance. Whatever the reason, happy kids in the open air is a good thing. Cathey and I smiled at each other and went back to reading our books.<br />
<br />
An hour or so later, we decided to take a walk. We've been doing a good bit of walking, both for exercise and to learn the lay of the land in our new home. Without thinking about the kids that had passed by before, we headed in the same direction, towards the Abbaye de Quarante (also known as Eglise Sainte-Mary de Quarante) just a few steps away. As we entered the square that the Abbey dominates, faint vocal music hovered at the edge of our hearing. It seemed to come from the Abbey. We decided to investigate.<br />
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I'll probably write about the Abbey in more detail later. Suffice to say that its history dates back over 1,000 years and the name of every abbot is enshrined on a plaque on one of the columns. It's an unpretentious sacred space by European standards, but pleasant and with a certain charm. You can learn more <u><a href="http://www.art-roman.net/quarante/quarante.htm" target="_blank">HERE</a></u>. (Sorry. Website in French.)<br />
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As we approached the entrance, our suspicions were confirmed. The school children led by a half-dozen or so teachers were involved in some sort of vocal activity, either rehearsing for a show or simply using the acoustics of the Abbey to enhance their vocal games. One group would sing a note, another would sing the note a third higher. Occasionally, on some signal that we couldn't detect, the group directly in front of the altar would move off and another would take their place. At one point, two of the groups joined in a finger-snapping, jazzy little scat number.<br />
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Cathey and I simply stood in the back by the door and smiled. If there's a show coming up, we hope to attend. If not, how neat is it to bring kids into an acoustically interesting space and just let loose? Either way, we spent an enjoyable half hour just hanging out in the church in our new little home town.<br />
<br />Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-63655542553506234602012-06-23T18:14:00.002-07:002015-02-02T06:55:09.173-08:00ON BECOMING AN EXPAT: The Beginning<span style="color: black;">From infancy through young adulthood, I lived just west of the center line of the </span>Great
Northeast Corridor of the United States, that stretch of a few hundred
miles along the Atlantic coast that starts in Boston, cuts through New
York and Philadelphia, and terminates in northern Virginia just past
Washington, DC. I LIVED there. It wasn't just my home. I never strayed. I
knew nothing of the rest of the civilized world except for what I heard
and read, saw on the television or in the movies.<br />
<br />
In
the first place, our family never traveled much when I was a kid. Dad's
lunch counter required his attention seven days a week. When we did
vacation, we went down the shore, the Jersey shore if you didn't get the
idiom. I don't remember a single night in a strange bed that wasn't in a
relative's house or down the shore. <br />
<br />
And the personal
histories of my family discouraged any incentive to travel in order to
return to the lands of my genealogical roots. My paternal grandmother
Dora and her brother Sam told stories of waves of antisemitism
culminating in pogroms in their native Ukraine, of risking lives to
rescue the Torah from burning synagogues, of walking with all of their
belongings in pillowcases to Milan in order to take steerage to the New
World. We never knew any of Dora's five husbands, the last a cousin so
we can assume that his story matches hers.<br />
<br />
Mom's
Russian progenitors apparently lived more comfortable lives. Bankers led
the family. Still, they were Jewish bankers. Some chose to remain, the
'home' base for a family network that facilitated its members' desires
to emigrate, not unlike today's new Americans. Gino, our favorite pizza
guy when I was a kid, told of how his family in Italy put together the
money to send him to New York. A cousin took Gino in, taught him the
business, and put up the money for Gino to open a shop in Flemington, in
what was then rural Hunterdon County, New Jersey. Gino brought over
other cousins to help in the shop. Business boomed. Gino opened a second
shop, staffed by the cousins he had trained, allowing for additional
cousins to be brought over. That's how Grandma Rose's family operated. <br />
<br />
Nothing in these stories created a desire in me to retrace the steps of ancestors who left their native lands so willingly.<br />
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Then
one day in 1970, I climbed into my VW Beetle and embarked on a road
trip sufficiently epic to merit a Ken Keyseyish novel if only I had the
talent. My intention was to travel to Atlanta to visit a friend, then
on to Dallas to visit a cousin. I had no plans beyond that. But in
Dallas I met Cathey, who was born in New Orleans, raised in three
different Texas cities, and who attended college in Mexico and did the
backpacking-in-Europe scene years before. I was to spend the next forty
years (and counting) with. Cathey. . On that one trip, I left Dallas for
Indianapolis, returned to Dallas with one of Cathey's sisters, drove to
New York with Cathey, to Boston and back to New York with another
friend, with Cathey and friends to Chicago and San Fransisco, to Los
Angeles and back to Dallas. After a side trip to New Orleans, Cathey and
I found our way home, to my home, then our own first home together in
northern New Jersey.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8u_6Q27dnGxZgeoGNGsEq2l8zaRa0uPte06tV9QIYoPI3fSq7dbntZMnVNEckOB-aKcUGRt3zCGBuIhDOIINVM7n7irGDqLxebSR5jUhNp1xr4BZZWfP1gIV9WOMHaIrON4zjqJjPxsWh/s1600/Roquefort+and+Rose+1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8u_6Q27dnGxZgeoGNGsEq2l8zaRa0uPte06tV9QIYoPI3fSq7dbntZMnVNEckOB-aKcUGRt3zCGBuIhDOIINVM7n7irGDqLxebSR5jUhNp1xr4BZZWfP1gIV9WOMHaIrON4zjqJjPxsWh/s200/Roquefort+and+Rose+1.jpg" height="167" width="200" /></a></div>
I'd
been bitten by the wanderlust bug and Cathey was a carrier. With such a
start, how could I not consider the unthinkable, the idea that living
out my life within a few miles of my birth would not satisfy my soul?Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-61453523145441385052012-02-04T13:37:00.000-08:002012-02-04T13:40:23.931-08:00WALL STREET JOURNAL ARTICLE: PARENTING IN FRANCEThe Wall Street Journal can't help but have a schizophrenic attitude toward France and the French.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCx7NTQp7-hEjB1L5LOjMqoKLpbo2ywLFx1vbS_5hR85EFRkCun2lKAxposkYCEGECnw8cTSeXhnq7hFVi4aRQxVnc_c6LyxKIRcl3xJOvG4-NfiUTwuQH_wdcz_gyRWMSylGo2ZYdY0/s1600/france-flag.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCx7NTQp7-hEjB1L5LOjMqoKLpbo2ywLFx1vbS_5hR85EFRkCun2lKAxposkYCEGECnw8cTSeXhnq7hFVi4aRQxVnc_c6LyxKIRcl3xJOvG4-NfiUTwuQH_wdcz_gyRWMSylGo2ZYdY0/s200/france-flag.gif" width="200" /></a>On the one hand, France is a social democracy. Not technically socialism, but close enough that you can call it that if you're a Republican politician. The French enjoy universal health care. (Maybe the word 'enjoy' is not one that the WSJ would use.) The French are part of that European Union thing, encouraging sloth among its populations, running up debt, threatening the markets.<br />
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On the other hand, those who read the WSJ are presumed to have disposable income. They want the best and they can afford the best. They live lives of relative leisure. If they knew how, they would be decadent.<br />
<br />
Who knows more about decadence than the French?<br />
<br />
So what is the editorial board of the WSJ to do? The answer comes in three parts:<br />
1. They denigrate the French on the news and editorial pages for their corrupt politicians, their 'entitlement' economy, their lack of good old Protestant work ethic.Can you believe that the French are entitled to more vacation by law than any other country in the world and that they take just about every day of vacation time to which they are entitled? And socialized medicine? Don't even go there.<br />
2. They worry on the financial pages that the European Union's apparent inability to solve it's economic problems will have a negative effect on the US economy. Their problems are their own fault...if you overlook that uniquely American invention, derivative trading. But if they blow their recovery, we might go down with them.<br />
3. They lay it out plainly on the pages that deal with life-style and the arts. French wine is the best. French food can't help but tickle the palate. French museums, the Musee d'Orsay in particular, set the standard. And today, I learned that the French are exemplary parents.<br />
<br />
Exemplary parents? How can this be? How can the same people who demand to be coddled by their government be the kind of parents who successfully teach their children patience, discipline, and self-sufficiency?<br />
<br />
I believe that attitude stems from a mistaken premise, that the French have persuaded their government to create a society that expects more in services than they are entitled to and are willing to pay for. I believe that the French have demanded exactly what reasonable people in the modern world deserve - working conditions that allow them to have a decent family life, healthcare that is among the best in the world and available to all, and a retirement age that allows them to be fully active for many years before the ravages of time set in.<br />
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But are the French willing to pay? I think that they are. Certainly, they would prefer lower taxes to higher ones. But they have a simple income tax system and a high Value Added Tax, both of which can be easily adjusted if necessary and when politicians exhibit the will to explain the need to their constituents.<br />
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They'll get through the current financial crisis. They'll keep universal healthcare. They'll get plenty of time off from work and they'll take all of it. And they'll be healthier than we are, live longer than we do, and raise patient, disciplined, and self-sufficient children.Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-68829938374165028722012-01-04T19:20:00.000-08:002014-05-27T02:21:44.560-07:00RECOMMENDED WINES AND VINEYARD VISITS IN THE LANGUEDOC<br />
Under no circumstances can I be considered a connoisseur of fine wine. I won't
be so simplistic as to say that I don't know much about wine, but I know what I
like. My palate is a bit more sophisticated than that. But you will never hear
me describe a wine as, "A saucy little vintage, spicy with hints of
leather, pine cones, and pineapple at the finish."<br />
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And the reader should be aware that I am no fan of the big California
boutique wines. They are overly expensive and have too high an alcohol content
for proper drinking. In a culture that considers wine the beverage of choice
any time that food is taken with the possible exception of breakfast, an
alcohol content of 8% to 10% is fine for table wine and 10% to 12% is about
right for a special bottle for a special meal.<br />
<br />
Consider this. Cathey and I consumed the equivalent of two bottles of wine
over dinner at the Hotel Residence in Nissan-lez-Enserune one night, a rose at
the start and a red for the main. They were perfect for the food and within the
alcohol limits described above. We heaved ourselves into our rental and were promptly
stopped at a checkpoint around a corner less than two blocks away. I passed the
breathalyzer test at 0.0%. Two possible explanations present themselves:<br />
1. The <i>gendarmes</i> were nice guys, took pity on the goofy <i>Americain</i>,
and used a broken tester.<br />
2. You can consume, enjoy, and metabolize a considerable amount of wine and
still solve complex mathematical equations if the wine has the appropriate
alcohol content, if you linger over a multi-course, work-of-art meal for two
hours or more...and assuming that you were a mathematician in the first place.<br />
<br />
Below are links to the vineyards that we visit when we are stocking our
French cellar. Some of their wines are exported to the USofA, but often those
wines are designed specifically for what the French vintner considers the
American taste and are quite different from the wines available at the vineyard
itself for local consumption. And please note that, with a couple of exception, we
pay about $5.00 a bottle for rose and never more than $10 for any bottle.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">1. </span><u style="color: blue;"><b><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8336870790957710156" target="_blank">Chateau Caza Viel</a>:</b></u><span style="color: blue;"> </span>On the D14 near Cessenon sur Orb, generational
winemaker Laurent Miquel has decided to specialize in viognier, a difficult
grape, and its combinations. The results are quite pleasant without being
overly complicated and heavy. There's viognier, chardonnay viognier, syrah
viognier, and more. The quality is excellent across the board. Their bottles
are for drinking with dinner or a fine lunch.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">2. </span><u><b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.saintmartindeschamps.com/" target="_blank">Chateau Saint Martin des Champs</a>:</span></b></u><span style="color: blue;"> </span>Just outside of Murviel les Beziers, this is land that
has been in cultivation for hundreds of years. Decent rose that sells out
early, the reds need cellaring for a few years to smooth out the tannins, and a
very tasty ice wine called Christine’s. We don’t go there much anymore. </div>
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<span style="color: blue;">3. </span><b style="color: blue;"><u><a href="http://www.croix-belle.com/index2.php?lang=en" target="_blank">Domaine LaCroix-Belle</a>:</u></b><span style="color: blue;"> </span>The tasting room is in Puissalicon. Decent chardonnay, a
red called Red No. 7 that’s ready for drinking and quite drinkable, <span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">and a sweet little
dessert wine called <a href="http://croix-belle.com/en/vins/soulenque.htm"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">La Soulenque</span></a>.
If you’re around at the right time, their New Wine is cheap and tasty.</span></div>
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4. <u><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Caveaux Saint Laurent:</b></u> (No link) On
the main drag that runs along the south edge of Capestang, this little shop is
where we buy our sipping rose – cheap, pleasant to look at, and easy to drink
all day long.<br />
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5. Day Trip Vineyards: <a href="http://www.daumas-gassac.com/" style="color: blue;" target="_blank"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Mas de Daumas Gassac</u></b></a> They go their own way and produce wine suited to the
terroir that may not meet the strict requirements of the French viniculture
Gods but that goes down divinely. We bought two bottles of their best red for
about $50 a bottle and will have held it for six or eight years before we drink
it. Between Gignac and Aniane on the D32. <b style="color: blue;"><u><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://www.masamiel.fr/" style="color: blue;" target="_blank">Mas Amiel</a> </u></b>Their Cuvee Speciale is
a wonderful after-dinner wine, almost a port, that is fermented with added
alcohol, left in the open air in large demijohns for a full year, then aged in
huge oak casks for an additional 9 or 14 years. Near Maury on the road to the
Pyrenees and the great ruined chateaux of Queribus and Peyerperteuse. </div>
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<br />Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-83517753395622933882011-12-31T13:47:00.000-08:002015-02-02T06:49:35.585-08:00BECOMING AN EXPAT: Making the Decision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In 1998, Cathey and I began thinking seriously about our
retirement. What did we want to do during our active retirement years? Travel.
Where did we want to travel? Europe. Why not live there?
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That’s the flip, short-hand way that I’ve explained the
decision that led us to purchasing our vacation home in the south of France as
a start on moving there permanently. The deeper reasoning was a bit more
complicated than that and we’ve had to re-examine our decision at various
points along the way. Perhaps it’s time to update the discussion of our making
the decision to live as expats.</div>
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Before meeting Cathey, my travel had been confined exclusively
to the East Coast megalopolis – Boston to the north, D.C. to the south, and not
very far inland. My family never ventured outside the region while I was
growing up. I don’t remember my grandmother, who lived next door to us, ever
leaving town during the last fifteen years or so of her life. Dad and Nana had
moved from the Bronx in the 1930s and, although Nana had walked out of Russia
and made her way through Europe to Ellis Island 30 years previous, and although
Dad had island-hopped with MacArthur and sailed around the Horn numerous times
in the Merchant Marines during WWII, once they had settled on a dirt road just
outside of Flemington, NJ, they stuck like glue.</div>
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Mom was even more parochial. Born and raised in Frenchtown,
just down the road from Flemington but less than half its size, Mom graduated
Frenchtown High, went to nursing school in Newark, and lasted only two weeks before
homesickness drove her back to Frenchtown. She lived within ten miles of her
four older siblings for 70 years, until the eldest brother moved into his
daughter’s condo in Boca. The remaining four passed where they had been raised.
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Aunt Sara was found on the floor of the kitchen in the
family house in Frenchtown. She’d never left. There were whispers that she’d been the victim
in a tragic love affair. To me, and later to Cathey, Sara had always been open
and welcoming. We visited more often than any of the other nieces and nephews
who had moved away, she always had cookies for us – store-bought chocolate
chip, and if it was mealtime, maybe a bit of herring? We liked Sara and I think that she like us. I
hope that she didn’t suffer.</div>
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Cathey’s back story is a bit different. Born in her mother’s
family’s base in New Orleans, she was raised in Brownsville, San Antonio, and
Dallas, Texas. Her father was in the hotel and hospitality industry and had an
affection for things Mexican. As a result, Cathey spent time in Mexico with
family friends, went to college in Mexico City, and had done the Icelandic
Airways/backpack Europe thing that was in vogue in those days besides. She was
a traveler and felt comfortable in other people’s neighborhoods. </div>
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It was pure serendipity that I met Cathey on my first trip
outside of my comfort zone. We first laid eyes on each other 41 years ago at
the old Dallas airport coincidentally named Love Field.</div>
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I discovered on that first trip that I enjoyed the road. It
was a doozie of a trip – Flemington to Atlanta to Dallas to Indianapolis to
Dallas to New York to Boston to New York to Chicago to San Francisco to Los
Angeles to Dallas to New Orleans to Dallas to Flemington in a 1970 VW Beetle –
brand new when the trip started. Cathey and I have been traveling ever since,
around the USofA, into Mexico, out to the Caribbean, and finally to England and
Europe.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ziCdh1_Uebk4mfXTALa2pZmlU2x8_qsMFqrO-uWrDnTjOQWLBPvQTqFGMniSnq3BBQI-9Tfqfm5Z3Wdgie5L00fsA_KeNmEJ4gFmqIoDkD6JcQXVT-qKIlAtgZofX8gwnXDUsmvdbaA/s1600/68.+Roquefort+from+Societe+Lot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ziCdh1_Uebk4mfXTALa2pZmlU2x8_qsMFqrO-uWrDnTjOQWLBPvQTqFGMniSnq3BBQI-9Tfqfm5Z3Wdgie5L00fsA_KeNmEJ4gFmqIoDkD6JcQXVT-qKIlAtgZofX8gwnXDUsmvdbaA/s320/68.+Roquefort+from+Societe+Lot.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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On the way, I discovered that I enjoyed breathing different
air, tasting different foods, seeing different sites, figuring out how to
communicate in a language other than English. For Cathey, who’d flown on DC3s
when they were brand new and all the women – passengers and crew – wore white gloves, the
idea of living an expatriate’s life was hardly a novel one. She knew many expats
personally. She counted some among her best friends.</div>
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What did we want to do during our active retirement years?
Travel. Where did we want to travel? Europe. Why not live there?</div>
Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8336870790957710156.post-56246390959656374712011-12-26T17:25:00.000-08:002015-02-05T09:59:24.777-08:00CREDIT LYONNAISE MORTGAGE PRE-APPROVALWe've had a checking account with Credit Lyonnaise since 2005. We've paid all of our French bills through the account either by check or debit - mortgage (through a different bank), taxes, utilities, property management, the works. We have a <i>Carte Bleu</i> (French credit card - Visa - tied to our bank account). We have a 'personal banker' with whom I can exchange emails (thanks to Google Translate). We recently opened a savings account in which we've parked the equity from the sale of our house.<br />
<br />
I recently contacted our personal banker to ask how to pre-approve a mortgage. That's how we purchased the house in Cazouls. We'd contacted Banque Patrimoine & Immobilier on the advice of an expat on one of the expat forums. We faxed and FedExed a bunch of financial information. Eventually, we were pre-approved for a mortgage of up to 100,000 euros. It made things simple when we found the house. Put the money down, inform the bank, and away we went.<br />
<br />
Credit Lyonnaise does not work that way, I'm told. When we've found the property, we'll let the bank know. They'll decide then and only then. No pre-approval. Not terribly convenient. Oh, well. If these things were easy, we'd all be rich.<br />
<br />
<b>EDIT</b>: Credit Lyonnaise crapped out. We found the house that we were looking for in Quarante, called with the particulars, and they simply disappeared. The mortgage company that the real estate agent suggested wasn't interested. We weren't looking to borrow enough to make it worth their while to write the note. In the end, we went back to BPI. Even though we had a history, our age was a problem. We had to fill out endless form, have blood work and an EKG sent to them, and had to have our doctor fill out a four-page form that ended with the question: Will the mortgage holder live long enough to pay off the mortgage? And we had to buy mortgage insurance anyway. But they got it done and the rate of 2.68% fixed for 15 years works very well for me.Irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14553705476112470677noreply@blogger.com0