EJ suggested that a Provencale cooking class would be fun, and two of us took up the suggestion. EJ, SF and I meet Erick Vendel at his home, and proceed with him and his assistant Sylvia to the vast Saturday market along George Clemenceau Blvd in central Arles. I heroically walk past the racks of 5 euro dresses and 7 euro hats but allow myself tastes of wonderful cheese, olive bread, salami,and other bits while odors of paella, falafel, and various exotic spices waft past, while Erick chooses supplies from his favorite vendors
Once back at the well-supplied cooking kitchen, we learn how to make Mille feiulles de legumes (there’s a trick to grating the garlic) pintade aux olives, (Chef Erick gallantly chopped off the head and feet of the pintade [guinea fowl] for us), torte aux blettes (be sure to wring out the chard), riz au gingembre and tarte tatin (amazingly easy and dramatic upside-down apple pie dessert!)
Everything in the oven or on the rack! Triumphant sous-chefs take a moment.
Then we sit down and eat it all, together with wine and digestif, which makes conversation lively in English and French. Then, clutching our recipes, we totter back to our hotels for what will probably be naptime.
This was our “What shall we do while the rest of the group goes to Avignon?” Day. EJ and I met for breakfast (rather ordinary, but fortifying) downstairs, put on our walking shoes, and set off for the Tourist Information Office down the street. We picked up our Arles 365 Passes, allowing us into ten historical sites and museums, and started across the street directly to the Hotel de Ville (City hall) and the neighboring Cloitre de St. Trophime (St. Trophime’s Church And Cloister). This was our dose of Gothic/medieval Architecture – lots of biblical motifs, Christ in judgment with unhappy souls being led off in chains to the left, while the sanctified get their angel wings on the right, all over the Church door in graphic detail. Inside, lots of chapels with minor saints (St. Roch is my new favorite dressed in the garb of a Conquistadore, but evidently he lived in the time of the plague, and had one of those incredibly faithful dogs.)
Then up to the riverside where we explored Constantine’s Baths (public steam room, exercise room, sun room, swimming pool – an incredible structure which, when first unearthed, was assumed to be a palace) Then through the adjacent Musee Reattu, an odd collection of 18th century and modern works (“The museum went to sleep during the world wars” explained the catalog), and down to the Arena, where we saw two gladiators battling rather cheesily.
Hungry and hot, we spotted the sign of Le Criquet, a restaurant that had been highly recommended by the Canadians EJ met the previous night, so we plopped down and were treated to delicious fresh shellfish over linguini or over potatoes (we had 2 different entrees) and a floating island pudding that relates to what they used to serve in our college dormitory as Italian gelato relates to a Fudgecicle. Fluffy, meringue, creamy pudding…. The picture can’t do it justice.
Almost dizzy from deliciousness, we decided to work off lunch by walking the length of George Clemenceau Blvd to the Musee d’Arles Antiques.
The museum’s modern bright-blue exterior belies the wealth of ancient artifacts contained within, including a cemetery’s worth of sculpted sarcophagi, murals re-constructed from villas excavated in the neighborhood, an ancient wooden boat retrieved from the Rhone river, its cargo of urns intact, and reconstructed, Greek statuary… and on and on. And, an extra plus after a day of sight-seeing – it’s air-conditioned.
EJ has scheduled a birding expedition led by an expert local guide this evening and may miss dinner, which is why we splurged on lunch a bit. After a short rest back at the Hotel Constantin he leaves to rendezvous with his guide, while BB and I walk to meet the rest of the group at Le Gibolin, a Michelin -recommended restaurant within walking distance.
There we meet PS, former leader of our student group in France, whom I briefly dated afterward (he taught me to appreciate hot buttered rum), and SF, who traveled with me and two other students for three weeks crammed into a VW beetle – and still remained friends afterward! Rounding out our table was MV, who had been a high school student in Tours during our stay and whose family had informally adopted PS and me. I had not seen her for over 60 years – the other three I had seen briefly at reunions or visits. Would our camaraderie endure after all this time?
EJ and I arrive in Arles via an earlier train than originally planned, having discovered that our tickets would be good for any TER train at any time in any direction as long as it is on the same date (what a convenience for the traveler!) We catch a taxi, overtip the driver, and arrive at the Hotel Constantin just as the lobby re-opens for business after the mid-day siesta which is common in southern France.
We picked the Hotel Constantin on the recommendation of our friend BB who was also staying there and was enthusiastic about the service she had received on a previous visit. We were a bit dubious, as it boasts only a 2-star rating, but the location on a narrow street just a footbridge away from the Boulevard George Clemenceau proved to be practically perfect, with easy access to museums, monuments, and the amazing Saturday street market. And we even had excellent viewing of the passing of the Olympic torch right outside the hotel steps! (more on that later).
According to the website, the rooms are “furnished with handsome items picked from various Antique markets”; I myself would describe the style as “vintage Garage Sale.” But the bed is comfortable, there are plenty of drawers for storage, the WiFi works well, and the plumbing provides a reviving hot shower. (Caveat: We learn later that the hot water is only available after 7AM and before midnight).
The breakfasts at the Hotel Constantin are a bit more spartan than as depicted on the website. Croissants and baguettes are fresh, yogurt and orange juice are available, but the only fresh fruit offered throughout our stay was bananas.
The other shortcomings which might have prompted a 2-star rating are
1) the lack of an elevator. The stairs are fit to star in Hitchcock’s Vertigo, and there is a trick to getting the lights to come on. (Motion-sensors are not perfectly placed, but a wave of the arms will usually get their attention.)
2) a shortage of electric plugs, and the one available being oddly placed at eye level just outside the bathroom. Fortunately, I brought an extension cord which served me well.
Did I mention how stellar is the location? At the end of the first day, we walked away from the city center along the Boulevard George Clemenceau which takes a sharp turn just past Hotel Constantin, and there we found Le Grand Rhone, and this lovely sunset:
One of my recent posts covered four airports in the US where I had touched down in the course of one trip. Since then I have had exposure to additional airports on an extended trip in Europe. Do overseas airports manage better?
Not quite fair to start the discussion with the San Francisco International Airport (SFO) This is my home port, I’m quite familiar with it, and to boot, I had a business-class ticket which put me in United’s Polaris Lounge before the flight. I and my companion enjoyed champagne/grapefruit juice mimosas, tomato soup, cheese and crackers, fruit tarts, chocolate mousse – it was hard to tear ourselves away when our flight was boarding. My father used to say “It only costs a little more to go first class” but unfortunately that is no longer true, so I can only say “If you can afford it, it’s a great way to start a trip. A+
We had checked our flights before leaving and were pleased to see that our departure gate at Munich’s International Airport (MUC) was only steps from our arrival gate in terminal G – no problem with making the connection, and maybe a quick stop in the Lufthansa lounge while we waited. But no; our gate has been changed from nearly-adjacent G32 to different-terminal K01. This means a stop through passport control, and then along endless moving and not moving sidewalks, up and down escalators to our gate. We breeze past attractive looking shops and eateries, wave at the Lufthansa lounge, and make it to the gate just as boarding is called. The only thing I can vouch for at MUC is that the unexpected passage through passport control was efficient, and the signage is excellent. B+
Next stop: Marseilles (MRS): This is a huge airport, hub for all sorts of African, Asian, and European airlines. We stopped at an ATM for cash, at a friendly information booth for directions to the train shuttle, and were on our way on the shuttle within twenty minutes of landing – slick as goose grease! [Full disclosure: We had carry-on luggage, and I speak pretty good French, which helped a lot]. Again, our rapid passage precluded any evaluation of amenities. One surprise: we expected the train shuttle to take us to central Marseilles, where we would have to negotiate a bustling station with lots of noise, people, and confusion. Instead, the shuttle dropped us at what seemed a remote suburban station, Vitrolles. Almost no-one waiting there, a small building with restrooms a quarter-mile from the tracks, and no posted routes. I looked at my trusty French map to confirm that any passing train would actually take us where we wanted to go. Reassured, we hopped the next train going north, and no worries.
On our return trip through MRS we had a bit more time to be confused by the construction at the entry and by the hugeness of the airport, and due to very poor signage we had to ask directions from a janitor to be directed to our proper terminal. I also was unable to download my boarding pass to my phone while inside the terminal, so we had to circle back to the check-in counter, where my carry-on was deemed too thick to make it onto my smaller plane to Lisbon (LIS). No more business class for us, but the waiting area was comfortable and not too noisy. C+
Zoomed through LIS as my flight from MRS left 40 minutes late. At the TAP gate there was confusion; it seemed there was a problem with my seat (2C) , so I was sent to the rear (8C) But there was a uniformed pilot sitting in 8C. More confusion. Eventually I was seated in 8C with many apologies, while the pilot dead-heading home was put in my original seat. Oh well. The flight to Porto (OPO) was easy and the young man in the adjoining seat friendly. But I can’t really give a grade to LIS – I have a hazy impression of lots of shops and advertisements and having to peer over the shelves to find the signage to my gate, but I will withhold judgment – InComplete
The Porto airport (OPO) is small and easy to negotiate. My hosts met me on exiting the baggage claim and guide me from there. On my return, I found my way to THE Business Lounge – all airlines share the same rather spartan space on the mezzanine level. Only later did I realize my good fortune in having access to the Lounge lavatories – there was not a trace of a WC visible on the plebeian level of the airport, although I’m convinced there must be at least a few. What’s fun about the Porto airport is the cosmopolitan veneer: Porto has a large expatriate colony from all over, and it shows in the variety of shops and food available. B+
And then I flew into Frankfurt (FRA), the largest, busiest, most harrowing airport in Europe. We landed a mile from the terminals, disembarked down a rolled-up stair onto the tarmac, boarded a bus, and drove through every ugly airline backyard the airport could show us before finally reaching Terminal A, Lufthansa’s pride. Unfortunately, it seems Lufthansa has quarreled with its code-share partner United, as my flight back to SFO was switched to Terminal Z. Are you kidding? No, Terminal Z is in fact at the far end of the line in Frankfurt, a dark, gray tunnel remote from any comforting Lounge. Its only recommending features are its Germanically hygienic rest rooms and the promptness of our departure from this depressing cave. D-
I recently spent a few days with friends who do not own a car, in a city where this is possible.
My friends live in a condo which is three blocks from a bus stop, and five long blocks from a subway station. Within a ten-minute walk are a small grocery store, a bakery, and the equivalent of what we used to call a five-and-ten-cent store where one can purchase hard goods ranging from light bulbs and screwdrivers to hair pins and underwear. On the way back from the subway they pass a neighborhood bistro where they can pause for a cup of coffee and a roll if it is morning, or a glass of wine and a plate of olives and cheese if it is evening.
My friends wanted to show me the things they love about their car-free lifestyle, and during my stay we took the bus and rode on the subway. We took a ferry to cross the river which divides the town from its suburbs. And we walked. Each day of my stay we walked more than eight miles, and went up and down the equivalent of more than 30 flights of stairs. (One friend has a pedometer.)
It felt good to walk. I enjoyed being able to stop and take a closer look at things on the side of the path, or to notice details of architecture and landscaping which would have flashed past a car window. We stopped at a pop-up street market and bought a few pre-used items. We took alternate paths through the park. When we sat down to eat I had burned enough calories to allow myself to splurge on desserts.
I wondered – could this carefree carless life style work in Los Altos? Greentown Los Altos (www.greentownlosaltos.org) assures me that it could. Our town is flat – perfect for walking and bicycling. We have bus lines that go up and down El Camino Real, and we have satellite lines that run along San Antonio Road and from the Mountain View train station up to Foothill College. And we have an evolving and expanding system of dedicated bike lanes and pedestrian walkways. I imagined going to downtown Los Altos on my bicycle with pannier baskets and hitching up to one of the many colorful bike stands around town, rather than circling the parking lots for a parking space. No worries about gas prices or car-jacking or keeping my packages out of sight. Why aren’t more people doing this?
Reality check: The streets of my friends’ city are lined with parked cars, despite the many public transit alternatives. The cost for using public transport is time. If you have a schedule to meet, a twenty-minute wait for the bus can be a killer. My friends are retired, and time matters less.
In my friends’ city, to take the Metro line from their home to the nearest airport takes an hour and a half. In a car, the trip takes fifteen minutes. When my friends took me to the airport, they called for an Uber.
I came home with good intentions to use my bicycle and my feet more, and my car less. The first morning after my return I thought about biking to my exercise class in Mountain View less than two miles away. But it’s tricky to cross El Camino; some cars make a quick right turn at Shoreline without looking for pedestrians or bicyclists. And I don’t actually have pannier baskets yet, and I needed to carry my gym equipment. And I barely had time for a second cup of coffee. And so I hopped into the car.
For some people, seeing a total solar eclipse is a bucket list item. For me, it was a lucky accident: I always visit my brother D in Texas in late March or early April, and he happens to live in Georgetown, right in the path of the totality of April 8th. I asked him way back last August if I could stay an extra day for the eclipse and he agreed; then my son and his family asked the same favor a few weeks later, so we end up with a mini-reunion.
D belongs to a golf club, and the club makes an occasion of Eclipse Day, with access offered to the driving range for an unobstructed view. Since the celestial event is scheduled for about 1:30 PM Texas time, the club also sets up an outdoor grill serving hamburgers and hot dogs, with soft drinks on tap and Milky Way bars for dessert. (Cute!)
The eclipse – peekaboo clouds, and then just before totality, they part perfectly to frame the diamond ring, then almost evaporate completely as the aurora flares out and a few red coals glow on the rim of the moon – solar flares, I am told later. The audience spontaneously applauds – good show, God! Amazing that if the moon were just a bit smaller, or the sun just a bit closer, the effect would not occur. Is this Creation at work for us or just lucky coincidence?
W and I met in the 4th grade in Longview, which was right on the route to my brother’s house in Georgetown, so we stopped off for some nostalgia. The main square with its civic sign (missing a letter already) was new to me, but the details of the “Fabulous 50’s” on the square’s monuments to growth were familiar. I attended one of those new schools, and my mother was a secretary at the R.G. LeTourneau plant for a while.
I didn’t particularly intend to drive past my former homes, but there we were on Fredonia street, and 911 Flanagan was just around the corner, and 913 Cole just a block away. Both homes were nearly unrecognizable with different paint, different landscaping, new additions to the side and rear, . but from this familiar location I easily traced the path I had walked so often to the Jr. high (now an alternative HS) and Nicholson Memorial Library (now a “learning center’).
We blundered on the Community Center, unchanged at least on the outside, where we and our 6th grade classmates had learned to ballroom dance from Mrs. Bowen. Just as we were thinking about lunch, we way the sign for Cace’s KItchen, run by the daughter and grand-daughter of Johnny Cace, whoseSteak and Seafood house was the height of gourmet indulgence Back in the Day. The 450-seat restaurant by the highway is long gone, but the family kept shipping their classic Shrimp gumbo and Crayfish etouffe to fans right through the pandemic, and then opened up this little bistro in the same building where Johnny Cacy got his start.
Then to the Fisher cemetery in former-Greggton, where W’s mother, father, and grandmother, plus a number of aunts, uncles, and cousins are buried in a cemetery dating back to the early1800’s which is now a TX historical site.
After paying our respects it was a straight shot (not counting a few wrong moves due to construction) out I-20 to Athens, and a comfy, cozy Best Western with a friendly desk clerk, who apologized that the pool is unheated (but it’s been in the sun all day so it should be warm – hah! ) and the spa was out of order (the part needed for repair came in wrong and they are still waiting for the right one.) Who cares! I was in my swimsuit and coverup already so I went out and lazed on a chaise lounge by the pool while W took her soaking bath – then I took my turn at a marvelous hot shower and shampoo – then to El San Luis Mexican restaurant – we each treated ourselves to a margarita (the size of a glass of iced tea!) before tucking into an enchilada dinner (I had never had a spinach or avocado enchilada – both delicious with sour cream sauce, excellent rice and beans.)
Back to the hotel, a couple of phone calls, then feeling VERY full, into PJs and a bed with four pillows and tucked-in sheets and an adjustable heating/AC system – luxury indeed!
Caddo Lake State Park is another gem made possible by the labors of the Civilian Conservation Corp back in the 1920’s. The entrance to the park is the first sign of their labors – two piled cairns which look like they have already outlasted many visitors, and will outlast many more. Some of the cabins and the eating hall built by the CCC enrollees are still in use, plus a nature-viewing pavilion on the Forest Trail which we set our sights on visiting.
The overnight temperature had plunged from 70 degrees on Monday to 45 degrees on Tuesday (spring weather in Texas can be chancy), so it took us a while to thaw out over multiple cups of hot tea before heading out on our Forest Trail adventure at about 11AM.
It was only a 1.5 mile loop trail, but we made lots of stops for catching breath, reading trail signs, trying out benches, and using W’s iPhone app to determine what trees and flowers we were looking at, it was near 2PM when we finished. [2 on the map below shows the location of the pavilion – and the elevation change!]
Climbing up to the Pavilion through the deciduous forest was a marvel to my West-Coast eyes. At the lower elevation were tree varieties I had read about, like hickory and elm, that don’t seem to occur west of the Rockies. Along the ridge just above the pavilion were long-leaf pines. I still have a little basket I made from pine needles in fourth grade when we were studying the tribes which used to inhabit this area, and for which Caddo Lake is named.
The pavilion itself did not disappoint, perched on an outcrop with the sun breaking through the trees to form patterns on the flat stones paving the terrace, looking out over an ocean of greenery waving and rustling in the breeze. I thought about the CCC enrollees who put this building together. Some among them had the souls of artists, and the skills of craftsmen, to leave us such a legacy.
We had packed a picnic in advance of our canoeing adventure, and headed for the Park Store/Museum/HQ, where we inquired for the best place to take a picnic and look at the big Caddo Lake (the State Park only includes Saw Mill Pond, a quiet side area suitable for calm canoeing and fishing but not for broad vistas) The rangerette directed us to the Caddo Lake National Wildlife Refuge and Starr Ranch, a peninsula only 15 minutes way, as a place with a lake view and a picnic table.
The CLNWR is located on land which formerly housed the Livingston Ammunition plant, which was subsequently designated an EPA superfund site, and which is probably responsible for the bass and trout caught in Caddo Lake harboring unsafe levels of mercury and other toxic chemicals. At this time, however, the main toxicity seems to have been cleared, the former Guardhouse is now a nature center for RAMSAR Wetlands, and the expanse of flat roads, by-roads, dirt roads, and grassy lanes invites the birder, biker, and hiker.
Starr Ranch turned out to be a peninsula with a wildlife viewing dock (looking brand new), one metal picnic table in full sun, a chemical toilet (looking pristine), and a pavilion (beamed ceiling, built-in pews on the side, picnic tables) looking quite new also except for a torn screen on the door, which hung open in the wind in a welcoming way.
No fees, no permits, no people except a couple of Harley riders who were consulting each other and their phones seriously but gave me a big smile – could have been drug dealers rendez-vous-ing but probably not), so we had our mackerel fillets, Boursin cheese, Wasa crackers and red Anjou pear looking out on the wind-white-capped lake. I almost felt guilty putting our mackerel/olive oil/pear core trash in that pristine trash bin in the privy.
After our lunch we stopped at the Visitor’s Center, housed in a couple of prefabs with an adjacent barbecue pavilion. It was completely deserted next to a parking lot designed for a host of tour buses – or maybe it was the former parade ground. We signed the guest book, browsed around, and saw not a soul either of staff or visitor. We could have made off with the stuffed bobcat and possum, but a sign warned that the site was “under surveillance”, and what would I do with a stuffed bobcat anyway?
I wake up to the same utter stillness that lulled me to sleep. I walk through lovely wet green woods under maybe-clearing skies to the loo.
Breakfast at 9ish of yogurt, fruit, nuts, and tea,then down to the Park HQ to confirm our arrival, get a parking sticker, pick up post cards, and rent a canoe for the PM.
A note of reality: Caddo Lake State Park is not, strictly speaking, on Caddo Lake. The boat ramp and canoe launch area actually border a small side reach of the lake, Saw Mill Pond. The good news: this sequestered area has no speed boats, no water skiers, and very few really deep areas – a perfect place for a couple of senior ladies, or for families with small swimmers, to try their paddling skills. for a reasonable $7 for a half day’s use, the friendly ranger at the Visitors’ Center gave us directions to the canoe launch area, keys which opened the storage shed full of life jackets and oars as well as our designated canoe. A few false starts (we forgot our hats, went to the wrong boat ramp) and then we found our canoe, donned life jackets, grabbed oars, and launched.
Well, we nearly launched, but ran aground on a cypress knee immediately. Happily, a couple of guys came along, laughed that they had done the same the day before, and pushed us off. I was feeling very unsteady balancing in the canoe in the far front end, and we had to fend ourselves off a number of cypress trees as the wind kept pushing us around. We ran aground again on a buried log in a backwater and were on the point of thinking one of us would have to get out and push, but a hefty shove against a tree got us afloat again. After that we were quite careful about staying in more open water. We were almost alone in the Pond – maybe one family with a couple of children maneuvering at the far end. We admired the shimmering water, and its reflections in the hollows of the trees. We listened to the stillness. We stayed out about an hour, long enough for our backs to feel the effort of paddling, and then ran ourselves into the canoe harbor perfectly.
Next, return the key, find out where to buy an extra propane canister, visit Johnston’s Caddo Grocery and Bait Shop 5 miles down the road, and then it is time for naps, reading, catching up with the expense sheet, and maybe writing a few post cards if we feel ambitious. Quiet is a wonderful sedative.
—-
I didn’t feel ambitious so contented myself with puttering around, until we decided that as we had skipped lunch making dinner early would be appropriate. So I got out the materials for basic glop, crossing my fingers that it could be cooked as well in a saucepan as in a skillet, and with me chopping onions and W browning the meat we had it together and cooking nicely on the Coleman’s stove in a half hour or so. I puttered around interfering with Wnifred’s building of a charcoal-based fire, until we began to smell a scorching at about the time the casserole should have been done. Hmmm. Although I had added some extra liquid to rinse out the tomato can, I did not allow enough extra to account for 1 the noodles being rotini instead of flat egg noodles and thus required Ng more time and 2 the Coleman stove, even at low heat, with only a thin aluminum saucepan to deal with, cooked HOT. so we had a layer of scorched substance on the bottom of the pan, and rather chewy rotini on the top. Still, hunger is the best pickle, and we managed to eat more than half, leaving enough for a second meal if we have appetizers before hand.
After dinner I kept fooling with the fire, as the termperature was dropping and the wind picking up. Although plenty of smoke was generated by the wood we had taken from the firewood rack at the boat dock, the only real flame camer from kindling sticks and pine cones I scrounged from the environment. We brewed some herbal tea and sat and chatted and i kept getting colder, adding a thin but oozy yoga jacket, my warm hat , my Biffy , my longjohn sottoms and my sweatshirt to my costume. By the time we gave up on the fire (a couple of logs had smoldered through, but no real heat generated) and climbed into our cots, i had decided to keep my sweatshirt on, with hood. I should have also kept the long John’s, as my summer pj’s tended to ride up and were no contest for the dropping thermometer (which hit 43 degrees per the Weather app the next day).
[I have had arthritis in my right hip enough to keep me awake both nights – both nights I got up and took an ibuprofen which cut in enough to help me sleep eventually. tomorrow I will be sure to take a famotidine in the AM hoping my “miracle cure” works again. It took a week to wear off from the Omoxxxxxx – or was it the Kathy Smith Aerobic workout? Or is it the hard cot? Or the cold?)
Allyson Johnson 