Mike and Shelley in Egypt

Hi everyone - this is Linnea, Mike's daughter. Mike and Shelley are currently at the Le Meridien Pyramids hotel in Giza, about an hour outside of Cairo. They told me earlier today that the hotel has security and tanks at the end of the street for protection. They are trying to get out of Egypt as soon as they can, which will hopefully be on Monday. The Egyptian government has shut down Internet access there so they have been unable to give updates on the blog. I will keep everyone posted as their situation changes.

Left Behind in France

C'est fini. C'est complet. No matter how I say it or in what language, our time in France has reached an end. Our friends ask how it feels to leave. I have been asking myself that question for days. How does it feel?

On one hand, it's a blur that leaves me dazed. After all, we just got here! We met with our rental agent, Ruth, so she could go over the house to make sure we hadn't destroyed anything (we hadn't). Her first words to us were, "It seems like yesterday that it was 2009 when we first met, and now it's time for you to leave!" Exactly.

This experience - this remarkable experience - has been both simple and profound; filled with big events and small; has held surprises at every turn; and still has more in store.

The experiences stack up like books on a shelf (real books - not the phony, electronic kind): The pageantry of the Palio, the spires and domes of Salzburg, the music of Aida in the Verona coliseum and Carmen at La Scala, the walls of Carcassone, the flamingos of the Camargue, the markets of Strasbourg, the pines of the Porquerolles, the caves of the Dordogne, the destruction and unforgiving, white crosses of Normandy, the lights of Lyon, the exhilarating beauty of hiking in Switzerland, and the thrill of the Tour de France peloton pedaling furiously past. We've literally been from sea to shining sea. In our case, from the Mediterranean to the English Channel. And that's just the big stuff.

It seems to me that the big stuff is glued together with the little stuff - those countless moments of wonder, a laugh, a smile, and knowing that the moment, that instant, just became a part of me and a shared history between me and Mike. Maybe the imprint those moments leave is the essence of this experience. And I've come to learn, the experience doesn't end here. It keeps going and going or, maybe more appropriately, giving and giving.

Some of these gifts are already clear. My morning walks, for example, taught me how to “see” with all my senses. Living here, I had the space to be attentive to how I feel – every day. I had freedom to write, draw, paint, compose, sleep, read, meditate, walk and, now, even run. Other gifts will become more apparent as we continue our travels and return home to Annapolis. We aren't bringing home many souvenirs - at least not the kind you can see. We are coming home as new and enriched people with perhaps a broader world view and definitely a broader view of ourselves.

But before we get home, we have more experiences ahead as we travel around the world. And, I'll be blogging every step of the way! We leave January 25 from Nice en route to Istanbul, Egypt, Bangkok, the Orient Express, Singapore, New Zealand, Honolulu, Los Angeles, Smithville and home. Touch down is on March 20. I go back to work on April 11, but I’m not thinking about that yet.

As I write these words, I already feel that it's time to come home. I miss my friends and family. It will be shear joy to feel friends' arms around me rather than just hear their voices or see fuzzy, halting images across Skype. I’ve discovered that the miracle of technology can span the miles, but I’ve also discovered the limitations. There’s simply nothing like that spark of energy from a smile, laugh, and touch between friends.

By the time we get to Texas – our last stop before Annapolis – it will have been a year since I saw my mother. Our timing is a little off as we will just miss George’s 80th birthday and we’ll be a month too early for my mother’s 80th. They’ve both been such good sports about our living in France. They’ve kept their longing to themselves and tried their best to support me and Mike. For that, I am forever grateful. Someone asked me what are the first foods that I will have when we return. Here’s my list: Mexican food, barbecue, iced tea, and Mike’s grilled chicken and veggies. Mother and George assure me that they will take care of the first three!

In the meantime, I’m conscious of the many moments - so easily overlooked - that brought this experience to life. Those moments may be left behind in France but they will be forever etched into my soul.
- Smell of buttery croissants baking
- Hanging clothes on the line in the scorching sunlight
- Hearing “Bonjour, Monsieur-Dames!”
- Bells ringing over the valley
- Walking to the market
- Our view
- The pines on the hill
- Meals on the patio
- Stone walls terracing olive groves
- Happy smiles from the shop owners
- The frogs in summer
- Moonlight shining through the bedroom window, and
- A little piece of my heart

Final Days Under the French Sky

Mike and I stood on the patio last night looking up at the full moon. It glowed round and bright behind the bare branches of the tilleul tree. We both knew that it was our last full moon under a French sky. We are sad but there’s not much time for sadness as we sort through clothes to give away, return borrowed items, parse out remaining food in our pantry to friends, and clean the house. We are to the point where we're counting rolls of toilet paper, dish washing tablets, and, for me, glasses of wine. But with all that preparation, we love each remaining day. And the days have been glorious – blue, sunny skies, temperatures in the high 50s, lunches on the patio, and long walks through vineyards along back country lanes and across the hilltop behind us.

Come along on our walk today. It is not anything particularly special and yet, it is everything that is special.

As we leave the house, our narrow, stone staircase curves steeply down to the road below. One wall is covered with ivy. We pass our tall cypress tree and a rosemary bush that threatens to overtake the outdoor light.

Down the road into the village, the sun hits the side of the church tower and the rock cliffs behind. The relief is so striking that it looks like a 3D movie without the funny glasses. We meet the owner of the Café de Cours on his way to work. He sings out, “Bonjour, Monsieur-Dame! Ça va?” In town on the Cours, all is calm. The shop owners prepare for their day, sweeping and serving coffee to the early risers. The plane trees, empty of their leaves, look like they did when we arrived. The lack of leaves accentuates their patterned trunks of dappled white, grey and tan.

Today, we’re walking up the hill to the Notre Dame Sanctuary and across the ridge line of hills behind our house. The Sanctuary is one of my favorite places to walk. It is a lovely climb, there is a wonderful view over the valley with the distant hills beyond, and the vineyards laid out in their organized rows below. Mostly, though, it is peaceful.

On our way up the hill, we run into a charming, elder gentleman who I affectionately refer to as “my little man.” When we first arrived, I saw him almost every day as I walked the hill to the Sanctuary and he walked, with his cane and sometimes his black Cocker Spaniel, into town for a baguette. Eventually, I said hello and did my best to introduce myself. Over the months, we continued to speak as I told him where we traveled in France. He is always gracious and polite. I have no idea his name. I am told that he is typical of the old-style Provençal gentleman. He will always be pleasant and I will always be a foreigner to be kept at a friendly distance. At Christmas, we gave him one of our homemade Christmas cards with the note inside thanking people for their hospitality - our best memory. Today, we meet him on our walk. This time, however, a smile lights up his face, he says, “ma belle American!” and I get a kiss on each cheek. How special is that?

We continue on our walk where the stone pathway in the hillside leads up to the Sanctuary. We pause to look out at the view and soak up the calm. We continue along the gravel road across the hilltop. The hills are covered with tall pine trees that whisper in the wind. Short oak trees grow between them and the underbrush is wild rosemary and thyme. We had some rain which seems to make the rosemary sprout pale, gray-blue flowers. The road becomes narrow with low stone walls on either side. The ground and walls play host to bright, green mosses and lichen. The stones are covered with these cushions of green that, on close inspection, are made of tiny stars. It is the perfect compliment to the rough, old stones, carefully stacked. A few birds twitter overhead but the only other noise is the occasional, distant gunshot (it is still boar hunting season).

We walk along the gravel road until it intersects with the path to St. Joseph’s Monastery. Today, however, we will turn onto the paved road that takes us past the glacier, the Source St. Martin (a natural spring under two, huge plane trees), and past Chapelle St. Martin. The small vineyards in front of the unoccupied chapelle are quiet and bare. They have been cut back to the main branches in preparation for new growth in the spring. The trimming is done by hand, gradually, over the winter months (yes, by hand).

We go down a slope, back along the road to where we can see a waterfall that feeds the stream and the better-known waterfall below. This time of year, without the leaves, the waterfall is more visible and audible. It is a sight that always causes us to pause for a few minutes.

No matter how many times we do this or another walk, there is always something to surprise or delight. Today as we return through town in the bright sunlight, we notice someone drying their sweater.....four floors above, hanging on a beam. I guess, you use whatever space is available!

At last, we walk along the steep road to the house (Mike will NOT miss that road!), and back up the narrow staircase. And, so goes our day in Cotignac. Like I said, it's nothing particularly special but, then again, every day is special under the French sky.

A New Year Begins (and Ends) in France

We only have a week left in France. How do you enjoy the New Year when you know that it is almost time to leave? The answer is – you don’t think about it. You simply enjoy every day. And that’s what we’ve been doing. Each week has brought something new.

We rang in the New Year in Paris where we met up with Linnea. Our few days together were filled with wandering the streets of Paris, attending a concert in St. Eustache, and watching the Eiffel Tower twinkle and sparkle at midnight as we exchanged hugs in the shadow of the Louvre. The New Year ’s Day concert was lovely – an ensemble of seven stringed instruments – under the dome of St. Eustache. They played seasonal music like Strauss’ Ave Maria, Mozart’s A Little Night Music, Franz Gruber’s Silent Night and a stunning version of O Holy Night. For me, the music now is richer. Only a few weeks ago we saw the statue of Strauss in Vienna, Mozart’s birthplace in Salzburg, and drove through the village where Silent Night was written. Listening to the strings play, images of these places filled my mind. The music was soft, airy and hypnotic. Wonderful – but perhaps not the best choice after a very late night celebrating New Years Eve. Of course, Paris without a stroll past Notre Dame wouldn't be Paris. There was a huge Christmas tree in front with people galore taking photos. There are hundreds of us who have photos much like the one Mike took of me, but few have arms coming out their ears! (Click on the photo if you can't make it out.) And Mike had a touchy moment with a rather angry angel with a pitch fork. He recovered and we ventured on our way for the long walk along the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. Thanks to a birthday present from my mother, we made an excursion to the Hermès store in Paris where I bought my last souvenir – an Hermès scarf. While the scarf is beautiful and a work of art, it is layered with so much more – a birthday gift from my mother, Paris with Michael, anticipation of the new year, and our last trip in France. (By the way, having learned to creatively reuse most everything, the Hermès bag was later filled with our recycling. That’s probably NOT what Mr. Hermès had in mind for his distinctive orange bags!)

Shortly after returning from Paris, the French celebrated epiphany on January 6th. The boulangeries were filled with gateau de roi (king’s cake). There are two types. In Provence, the traditional cake is brioche with decorative candied fruit on top. In Paris, their cake is a rich, flaky pastry filled with an almond paste. In both cases, there is a tiny figurine inside the cake. It is a lucky person who finds the prize – unless they bite down too hard and chip a tooth. Mrs. Poulliard warned us to be careful. We chose the Parisian type so that I could at eat the filling. Mike was the prize winner when he discovered a little, baby Jesus – with a foot kicking in the air – in his slice. Just in case you didn’t recognize Jesus, it was thoughtfully labeled on the back.

The Christmas lights have been taken down in Cotignac although they are still up in nearby Carces. Some decorations at individual homes are also still around. We had seen outdoor decorations of stuffed Papa Noels (Santa), complete with his red suit, on many houses. But there was something different. We finally figured it out. Here, Papa Noel doesn’t come down the chimney. Indeed, the chimneys are typically pipes or small openings with vented covers. It would be very difficult to get into a house that way. The small, stuffed Papa Noels are climbing ropes or ladders into windows – a much better approach.

Next was Mike’s birthday. He was very excited to collect his first Social Security check as we sat in France enjoying a perfect day. In fact, the weather has been exceptional the last week – sunny and warm. We have been sitting outside to eat lunch and hanging clothes on the line to dry. It’s as though it was spring again. With such beautiful weather we took a long walk on Mike’s birthday to soak up the landscape AND to work off the wonderful dinner that he made that evening. A few weeks ago we bought a capon which is a traditional holiday food in France. Mike roasted it stuffed with garlic and an orange, and covered with herbs de Provence. As those smells wafted through the house, we had an appetizer of foie gras. I also had a treat of an aperitif of vin d'orange. I just learned of vin d'orange from my friend, Irene. This is a wine made from oranges and rose wine that is aged for at least 40 days. Irene gave me a sample of her homemade vin d'orange and it was wonderful! Dinner was great and was finished off with a chocolate macaroon with a match on top!

With the beautiful weather, we’ve taken walks every day. Today, Sunday, everyone was out enjoying the sunshine. A group of guys were on a hilltop jamming. Sounds of drums and guitars were unexpected and happy. A mother walked down a dirt lane with her two small children dancing to the music. Others strolled past as well. A farmer on his tractor plowed between the rows of grape vines. Kids on tiny bikes rode past us calling out, “Bonjour!” And, somehow, it all seems like a fitting way to start the New Year.

Dreaming of the French Markets

It’s a dreary, cold day in southern France. I look out the window, my back to the warmth of the wood stove, to see heavy, grey moisture hanging in the air, so thick that I can’t see across the hill. It’s a perfect day for remembering the summer sun and dreaming of the markets past and the ones that will arrive again in the spring just as we’re settling back into life in Annapolis.

Both Mike and I love the markets in France, and we never tired of going to them. We went to the markets in all the neighboring villages – Lorgues, Salernes, Carcés, Aups, Draguignan, in addition, of course, to Cotignac. What is it that makes the markets such a special event? Maybe it’s the hustle and bustle of all the people, or the organized haphazardness of the stalls, or the colors of the produce mounded in their bins. Or maybe it’s that good feeling we got as we walked out of the house with our straw baskets in hand knowing that we’d return, huffing and puffing up our hill, with the baskets brimming over with good things to eat. No matter the season, it always feels like a fun event even though it’s simply grocery shopping. But what a way to shop! We’ve been here long enough now to see the market grow from quiet beginnings in the spring through the summer when it was packed with people, into the fall and now the winter. Today, however, is a day for dreaming…back, back, I go, ….until it’s last spring.

I remember walking into the market and seeing heaping piles of golden, yellow apricots. On closer inspection, they had a pale pink blush and a light fuzz, and were juicy enough to fall off the seed. We could get arugula then, too. We’d grab a handful to throw in with the stunning lettuces that were spilling over the bins – frizzy, red leaf, green leaf, butter along with endive and radicchio. Those lettuces and arugula were perfect with a light drizzle of olive oil – bought from the market, too. The simple beauty of leeks with their long, straight stems of white held us in their thrall. Of course, spring wouldn’t be spring without strawberries. Here, strawberries were sold by their variety. The small, wild ones were particularly sweet and wonderful sliced into our favorite yogurt or made into a salad with cucumbers and a dressing of honey and vinegar. That recipe is coming home with us.

We very quickly found the farmer who was to become our favorite. He grows organic vegetables at his farm neat Cotignac. His produce was displayed in wicker baskets across the table – carrots and potatoes still covered in dirt, bundles of garlic, dazzling lettuces, and fruit. We’ve continued to buy produce from him every week. He recognizes us on sight now and smiles as we pile up our goods.

Spring moved into summer and the crowds arrived. People jostled through the market and crowded the aisle along with shiny red, green and yellow peppers, glossy purple-black eggplant, and, of course, tomatoes – perfect for Mike’s famous ratatouille. Skinny green beans topped our salad nicoise, and wide, flat green beans were our change of pace. Then there were the fava beans, the white beans and the coco beans (red and white spotted). I happily shelled them outside on the patio. Later in the summer Cavaillon melons (like small cantaloupe) hit the stands – sweet, succulent and perfect for a hot summer day, particularly with a tiny bit of thinly sliced ham. This simple pairing was a favorite. The strawberries shared space with raspberries, blackberries and tart, tiny, red currents. The berries rode like royalty on the top of our straw basket so they wouldn’t be crushed by the melons.

Late summer saw mounds of blushing purple and red plums, not my favorite to eat, but one of my favorites to admire. Their shiny, smooth skins lay piled next to the ribbed, brown-purple figs. Those were a favorite with their deep red, soft interiors packed with flavor. Drizzled with local honey and a dab of fresh goat cheese they made a perfect light snack or dessert. And then there were the nectarines and peaches - fresh and perfect on my salad with a bit of balsamic drizzled on top.

Of course, food was not the only thing in the markets. There were jars of black or green olive tapenades, and tapenades made with anchovy and artichokes. Bowls of olives lined tables. There were black or green olives, tiny and large, flavored with red pepper, herbs de Provence, basil and garlic, or lemon. Mike quickly learned how to cook with the olives using them in Provencal chicken with carrots or pork roast. Bottles of locally produced olive oil were lined up to capture the sunlight and glisten like stained glass. Golden jars of honeys – lavender, tilleul (linden tree), wildflower, chestnut - reflected the warmth of the Provencal sun.

It wouldn't be France without loaves of freshly baked breads. There were rustic loaves with seeds sprinkled on top. Country loaves where flour still clung to their cracked crusts. All of them were waiting for a dash of olive oil, a slice of cured ham or a bit of goat cheese to bring out their flavors. In addition to a daily baguette, we had other staples that we bought at the market stalls, like eggs. There were dozens and dozens of fresh laid brown eggs sitting happily in their orderly rows...outside. Once home, ours lived in the window sill of the kitchen, never in the refrigerator.

The spice vendor had a long table packed with burlap bags brimming with colorful spices like “herbs de Provence”, peppers from around the world, paprika, cumin, coriander, and more. Barrel-sized bags contained leaves for tea. For example, tilleul is a popular tea which came to be one of my favorites. We didn’t realize that the tree on our patio is a tilleul tree. We stood staring at a bag filled with blooms and leaves from the tilleul tree that looked exactly like the blooms and leaves we’d been sweeping off the patio!

There were vendors selling souvenirs like olive wood bowls, table and kitchen linens, straw bags, and soaps that perfumed the air with lavender, olive, and almond as well as less common scents like carrot…mhm…carrot soap. We took all our visitors to see a specific vendor who I felt had the best quality products. In time, we were elevated in his eyes so that our friends received the “friends and family” discount (about 10% off). If he didn’t realize that someone was with us and, so, missed their discount, he would give me a bar of soap. I guess it was my commission!

The market wouldn’t be complete without the butchers, the cheese lady, the sausage vendors and the rotisserie folks. Cheese from all over France was cut and carefully wrapped. We had our choice with the goat cheese - fresh, semi-aged or aged. Our cheese lady would demonstrate by squeezing the cheese so we could see the “give.” The softer the cheese the younger it was. With our cheese selected, she carefully placed a sprig of thyme on top and wrapped it in precisely folded paper. We left with specific instructions that it was “très fragile!”

The sausage was not so fragile and was made from pigs, boar, bull, cow, goat, sheep, and even donkey. We mostly skipped the dried sausage in favor of the fresh which was made by hand (from the same lady who sold fresh made pasta). Her husband ran the rotisserie for which people lined up each week. It was easy to find his stand. All we had to do was follow our nose. The smells of roasting chickens, ham and rosemary filled the market. We became a big fan of his ham. It turned slowly on the horizontal spit along with row after row of farm raised chickens. Baskets of potatoes cooked underneath so that the drippings fell into the potatoes. The smells made me want to sit there sniffing the air. One week we bought some ham but he had to carve the large bone out of the middle in order to cut our slice. Mike was drooling over the bone as it would be perfect for one of his famous soups or cassoulet. But when our rotisserie guy freed the bone, he glanced down and threw it to the small, mongrel dog who is a regular in Cotignac. I can still hear Mike groan as the little dog proudly loped off with his bone.

Another regular vendor was Noel who sold paella, adding whiffs of fragrant saffron into the air. Every market day and in markets across all the little villages, he would make paella that he sold in tubs. Mike says the pan was 42” across and brimming full of saffron-colored rice, pink shrimp, black mussels and veggies. As we came to understand, Noel is a caterer – or traiteur, in French. He catered the aioli dinner in Cotignac, and he sold paella made with quince at the Quince Festival. We saw him so often that he still smiles and waves to us even though we only bought paella once.

As summer moved into fall, apples and pears arrived along with pumpkin, turnips, parsnips and the most beautiful cabbage I’ve ever seen. Nuts, particularly walnuts and chestnuts, filled bins. Chestnuts get the award for the most beautiful nut with their smooth, shiny, deep-brown shells. They are very popular and are a traditional food for the period around Christmas. There were whole chestnuts, sugar glazed chestnuts, roasted chestnuts, and chestnut paste used for soups and sweet fillings. Next to the nuts were bins and bins of citrus fruits. Clementines still sported their shiny, green leaves, as did the lemons. The citrus was coming from nearby Italy or Spain and tasted as fresh and sweet as it looked.

The market continues to dwindle each week as more and more vendors close for the season, taking vacation and resting before the start of next year’s market. We have two more market days left in Cotignac. We’ll stop by our favorite vendors for a last purchase and a fond good-bye. We won’t be there to join in the fun next spring, summer and fall, but I’ll hold the image of the French markets in my mind and in my heart. I’ll be full of the colors, the smells, the chatter of people, the flavors and the heavy feel of the basket handles in my hands. My mouth is watering already.