Budapest, by day and night

...well, not in the airport.

I've made it as far as Amsterdam, and have been amazed at my re-emergence into the modern world. I may as well be in a mall in the United States - the Schiphol Airport has many goods for sale, has restaurants I've heard of (Sbarro, Burger King), and just about everyone speaks excellent English. Thank God for educated masses. While my short time in the Netherlands will prevent me from indulging in the partially legalized sale of drugs or sex, it's been a nice opportunity to ask and understand answers to basic questions without having to think. I'd also be remiss to not mention the numerous beautiful women... Life is good - Prague tonight, Budapest tomorrow.

Nicest food court I've ever seen





Some things just aren't better "gummy."

The girl at the top of the tree is actually sining to the airport patrons.

Seek not and you may find...

I'm finished with France - emotionally, but more importantly, physically. Although it didn't happen 'till the last 12 hours of my time in the country, I've received my financial compensation for four months work; trust me, you don't want to know. The 630€/month food bill combined with taxes ultimately paid the "under" bets.

However, it's the positives I'll remember. The country is beautiful, and almost everyone other than the woman with whom I lived was kind and patient. I searched for truffles in the hills, hunted rabbits in the vineyards, and began to understand the French language. I visited historical sites the likes of which the United States (at least in terms of anglo history) can never know, walked barefoot in the Mediterranean Sea and stood on snow in Andorra. However, even these memories will soften and fade.

On Monday after work, we searched for and found about 1000€ worth of truffles. It'd have been easy for Charles to sell them - any local merchant would gladly pay the 1000€/kg wholesale price, and I know that he doesn't exactly "live large" on his salary working for Marie. Instead, the most important thing for Charles was that I (with absolutely no knowledge and/or experience regarding truffles) was able to take in some of the local culture. We went back to his house and opened some wine. That night, we (the four of us from work) sat around the table and ate truffles with bread, olive oil, and sea salt, ending with shredded truffle over salad - after all, who knew when I'd be back. We joked about work, the recent cold weather, and the dog that found our truffles. Later, I expressed my domestic/financial frustrations openly for the first time, with the only people truly capable of understanding - the others who knew and worked for Marie. Their response? "We understand, and we're surprised you stayed this long. If you ever visit again, please stay with us."

It was positive closure. It was communication. It was what I'd been looking for all along. It was reassurance that while I've experienced many positives during my stay in France, the net effect remains the same - I must leave. As my uncle said, "Not all the roads on a great adventure are paved, my boy. Indeed, that's what makes the adventure ultimately great!"

I suppose you could say he left them nearly senseless?

If you’re ever in southern France, I recommend visiting a historical site called Minerve, about 25 minutes from the Narbonne. Set atop a hill at the confluence of two deep river valleys, Minerve has a history of violence to match its physical stature. Although I don’t know when the village was first established, its purpose was simple: defensibility. The original settlement boasted a double exterior wall built flush with the surrounding cliffs. It is still easy to see why the original inhabitants felt safe – there is virtually no way to directly attack the city.

The story goes that in the year 1240, during the Crusade against the Cathars, Simon de Montfort laid siege to the village after the Beziers Massacre. With four catapults – three attacking the main gate, and one – the largest, called Malevoisine – concentrating on the town well - Montfort relentlessly besieged the village for six weeks. Legend has it that to add to the intimidation factor, Montfort brought a group of prisoners to the base of the city and removed all of their eyes, ears, noses and tongues – except for the last man, who got to keep one eye. He then chained them together and forced the man with one eye to lead the others around the base of the village, and subsequently to other villages, to demonstrate his power.

Anyway, after six weeks of catapulting, the well fell and Viscount Guilhem of Minerve, leader of a force of 200 men, negotiated surrender to save himself and the villagers. The 140 or so Cathars hiding in the city refused to give up their faith and were subsequently burned at the stake.

Walking through the dry river bed at the base of the city was a humbling experience. While few plaques exist to explain the history, one’s imagination fills in the gaps readily. Creating a bit of an emotional dichotomy, the area is visually stunning. Parts of the original city walls remain, fused with new walls that together rise from the cliffs. A substantially tall one-lane bridge connects the city to the opposite canyon wall, the only exit for people and vehicles. Each of the two valleys is very deep with hundreds of feet of exposed cliffs. The river itself has carved a cave probably a quarter of a mile long and anywhere from 60 feet wide at the mouth to 150 feet wide inside. Visitors are able to walk through during times when the river has “disappeared” underground. The opposite canyon stretches north, and along the river runs a path leading to a series of natural pools. Near the pools lie the remains of a few structures and a small bridge, still standing after hundreds of years.

In other news, Marie now knows that I’ll be leaving soon and we may have resolved that little problem of my “yet-to-receive-compensation-for-my-work” status. I’ve accepted a job in New Zealand beginning February 5 which will pay nearly equal to my wage in France (this is contingent on my successful application for a work visa). However, I can guarantee my “food” cost – even when combined with my actual lodging cost – will be less than I currently surrender. I’ll be working at the second largest winery in New Zealand, near the north end of the south island. The company, Delgat’s, hires about 40 seasonal workers for the wine harvest and arranges reasonably priced housing, a shuttle service to and from work, one meal a day, and “work clothes.” They also speak English, even if it is a little funny to hear them talk.

I have an address in Prague. It is:

Jonathan Fitzpatrick
Kladska 1293/15 #10
120 00 Praha 2
Czech Republic

I’m also taking suggestions for a new title for this blog.

Legacy building?

Lately, I’ve been able to solidify a few of the details regarding what’s happening in my life over the next month. Consequently, I’ve begun to come to terms with the end of my time in France. I seem to have more questions than answers, but the time I spend each day at work has afforded much positive internal dialogue. I’ve begun to ask certain questions which have recently surfaced as important, such as, “what will I leave behind for the French to remember me by – what will be my legacy?”



I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Is three months enough time to establish a legacy, or can a legacy be established in an afternoon? I’ve considered trying to build upon certain cultural similarities drawing on my own personal experiences. I’ve contemplated drawing on similarities from areas of the United States that have been stereotyped in similar ways to this area of France. While most of the time I’m left with a lot of loose ends, Thursday afternoon went a long way to connecting some of the pieces (forgive the mixed metaphor).

I don’t know exactly what happens when I get around heavy machinery, but I seem to revert to the 4-year-old boy whose father would take him to the county dump to see the earthmovers, bulldozers and other oversized, loud, and often yellow-colored machines. I begin to work less, spending more time simply watching the machines move. I’ve noticed that this phenomenon is not unique to me, but instead I’ve witnessed it in men of all ages, and now in at least two countries. There’s something about men and these machines that prompts child-like awe - and often behavior.



Take for example, my work experience at JeffCo with Andy Schaefer. Whenever we were given the opportunity to operate the gas-powered wheelbarrow, we tried to maximize the amount of stuff we could get in the box while still successfully operating the machine. While we probably did save some time, our goal was instead to push the limits of the machine, as well as our own abilities to effectively operate it. Often times this meant putting far more than the recommended weight into the box and then attempting to drive the wheelbarrow in the fastest gear down a narrow, winding trail without dumping the load. Most of the time we were successful. On a few occasions, we had to stop, right the barrow, replace the load, and even once stop serious bleeding.



So when our job Thursday was to continue picking rocks out of a field as we’d been doing for the past week, something inside me clicked, and my legacy worries were laid to rest. Lately we’ve been using a bucket attached to the back of the tractor to help load some of the larger rocks. We’d been careful not to overload the bucket because too much weight lifted the front of the Renault 80.14 right off the ground, rendering it in-navigatable (apparently not a real word). However, as I mentioned above, moving large rocks with big machines often turns men into boys, and with the added influence of after-lunch alcohol, an old-fashioned, deep-south, redneck tradition was reborn in French wine country – the tractor pull.



It took a bit of encouragement and a lot of hand motions, but I was able to convince the guys pretty easily to overload the tractor. I had taken care to position the machine in the ruts we’d established on our myriad trips to the dump site, and after lifting the bucket and dropping the clutch, I was off to the races on two wheels. We probably spent more time picking up the lost rocks and reloading them than we ever did loading them in the first place, but everyone had fun trying to keep the tractor on two wheels as long as possible. While I might stop short of saying I established an According-to-Hoyle legacy, I slept well that night knowing that none of us would ever forget our time together picking rocks from that field.



The weekend brought more juvenile behavior as I was again invited to go hunting. The day began before sunrise with men and dogs gathering near trees. I wasn’t really sure for what we were hunting, but I soon learned that just about anything moving was fair game (so, same as last time). A few fowl attempts aside, we focused on more terrestrial-based animals, such as hare, for which our efforts returned three. However, the “hunting” was so good that no one wanted to give up their gun and I returned home again with nothing but an 8pm hangover.

If John Henry was a steel-driving man,...

If you have 30 minutes to kill, I recommend trying to explain the concept of "Thanksgiving" to someone who doesn't speak English/has never lived in the United States. When you're finished - if you're not out of time - give "football" a go. Finally, explain why the two go together so well. (I ran out of time somewhere in the middle of "football.")

This week, Marie asked me what "Thanksgiving" was all about. She told me what she thought it was about: well-to-do American families invite homeless people into their homes and feed them lots of good food. Well, the thought was nice. I knew I lost her sometime early when I tried to explain Pilgrims and Indians, and it only went down hill from there. We ended by saying that it was mostly just families - very few homeless - gathering to eat and be thankful for the things they have. As I was about to leave the kitchen to listen to the Ohio State/Michigan game, Marie asked me to explain American football. This didn't go as well as "Thanksgiving." We had trouble with the idea that each team had an "offense" and "defense," the same players didn't play both, and only one team got the ball at a time. I had to end it with "It's too difficult to explain" to make kickoff. Needless to say we had no turkey, there was no candy corn, and I'm still waiting for my pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving explanations aside, we worked this week. We spent the first three days of the week pruning in the vineyards. We spent the last two days picking rocks out of a field to prepare it for planting in April. When I say "picking" rocks, I mean the large chunks of earth that bulldozers uncover when they drag 4' long blades through the ground (similar to the bulldozer pictured). After two days of loading those pieces into a trailer, I feel like I've been in a car accident. The good news is that this week I learned how to drive the tractors at work. Now, I don't have to wait for someone to pick me up in the morning. I just fire up the Renault Dionyis 130.

In other news, I think I've figured out a solution to my unhappiness in France - which would be for me to leave. I'd bought a plane ticket to Prague for Christmas and New Years, and I think I might be staying (uh, Joel and Greg, I hope that's okay with you). I've also received a couple of job offers to work with the wine in New Zealand. I'm currently trying to decide which to accept, and hope to travel before I begin work.

In honor of Thanksgiving, this seemed appropriate: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/55331

sorry, no pictures...

Disclaimer: A lot of you have read and responded to my last posting which detailed some of the challenges I'm currently facing in france. For those of you with whom I'm spoken, thanks for your patience listening to my thoughts. For those of you who have taken the time to email me and pass along encouragement, thank you. It's nice to know that A. people actually read my blog, and B. my friends care about me. In that vein, I'm posting an expanded view of what I've been thinking regarding my situation. It's rough - I've written it quickly and without editing (aside from the free advice of Microsoft Word), and it's definitely a big change from the more light-hearted posts so far. It's by no means the "final word" - it's just what's on my mind today. On y va.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my current situation in France, and just this afternoon I’ve had the opportunity to talk with a couple of my best friends on the (internet) phone. While we talked about a lot of things in those couple hours, I struggled to express what I’d been feeling lately about my situation at the winery. I think it’s complicated because what I feel as one large emotion really comes out of two separate, lesser emotions. The first and most upsetting emotion is the anger which I feel when I think about the ways I’ve been mislead by Marie, the woman who owns the winery and hired me back in June. Without going into too much detail, I feel that fault lies on both sides for not clarifying many important issues before agreeing to work together. The second emotion can most easily be called loneliness, and has resulted from the physical isolation of the winery, the lack of people on the estate after work, and my inability to go to nearby towns where I have the opportunity to meet other people who may speak English and/or share common interests.

I believe many experiences are enhanced when shared, and not being able to share my experiences – actually visiting towns, seeing sights, and learning about the culture – with other people (people with whom I can communicate verbally, people who understand not only inflections but colloquialisms, people – basically – who speak the same language and share common interests) has caused me to miss this part of the adventure. Isn’t this why we go on trips together? And by default, isn’t this why we seem to meet people with common interests when we travel (alone or with friends)? “Hey, you’re hiking Grinnell Glacier because you also want to see it before it’s gone? Me too! Where are you camping tonight?...”

Sometimes, the physical location isn’t even the important thing we remember about the experience. How many times have you been someplace with someone – maybe it’s a historically important place, maybe it’s your living room – and the experience itself is a product only of the shared communication and resulting understanding? I know I’ve had these experiences with people all over the place – in cars or on boats or hiking up glaciers or sitting on the couch at 3 in the morning. Joel and I sat on the steps in front of the cathedral in Narbonne last week, eating our crepes, and had a conversation that probably couldn’t have occurred any where else in the world. It’s not that it was intrinsically tied to that exact physical location – it was just a combination of all of the circumstances coming together at that exact time. Of course, these aren’t guaranteed experiences. But I can guarantee you won’t have any without someone else who understands the same language, and therefore the ideas you’re trying to communicate.

So, talking with greg and joel allowed me to clarify the two separate emotions for myself, and begin to ask the bigger question: am I settling for a less-than-ideal situation here in france? It’s a big question, because there’s always the tendency to think “the grass is greener…” But when is the grass actually greener, and when are we only deceiving ourselves into thinking so? When is the time actually right to “move on” and find greener pastures?

I don’t want to leave France because I’m facing something that’s not comfortable. Being uncomfortable can force us to grow and teach us new things about ourselves and others. If I’m here and the work is “too hard,” or “it rains a lot,” or whatever, those aren’t good reasons to leave. I also don’t think that leaving only because someone somewhere else seems to be having more fun is a good option, either. It’s tough to tell if the difference between being “okay” and being “fulfilled” is great enough to warrant moving along.

But sometimes, in the short term, I think you have to sit back and ask yourself what you’re trying to get out of an experience. This doesn’t always have to be a multifaceted question. Have I seen what there is to see, learned what there is to learn, and done what there is to do? While it’s difficult to answer yes with 100% on any occasion, sometimes being close is good enough. I’m not in france to become a citizen or learn the language inside and out. I’m not here to get a permanent job in the wine industry, and I don’t want to “settle down” in this part of the world. The time I’m taking off of school is for me to explore different places, see different things, and meet different people, hopefully while sharing the experiences with my friends. It’s not to make money. Judging by that criteria, I’d say I’ve seen and explored most of what’s available to see in this area under the current circumstances, I’ve obviously not been able to meet as many people as I’d like due to physical limitations, and I’ve shared only two days in the past 10 weeks with someone I’d consider my friend.

The benefits of staying in France for the whole 6 months are that I’d be able to pocket about another $1000 (USD), and wouldn’t have many opportunities to spend money during the subsequent two weeks leading up to the wine harvest in New Zealand.

If I do decide to leave France sometime in January (maybe the middle, maybe the end), I’d have the opportunity to travel to Prague and live with my friends for a couple of weeks. While they’d work during the days, we’d have nights and weekends to see the country – occasionally traveling together – and I’d have opportunities to meet new people and establish new relationships. After some time in Prague, I’d be able to head toward New Zealand a few weeks before work begins and see that country. I also have three or four friends living there now, and I would like to catch up with them and learn about their lives in their home countries. Overall, I’d probably not save as much money. However, the benefits would allow me to spend more time in more places sharing more experiences with more people. Aren’t those the things I said above were most important?

I don’t advise settling for anything. It’s not good to settle in relationships or situations that you know aren’t the best for you (disclaimer: this is not intended to be used as an “out” in cases where people just don’t want to deal with something). I’ve come this far to Europe to see and feel and do, and when I’m not seeing and feeling and doing anymore at a certain place, then I think it’s time to move along, and see and feel and do something else, someplace else, and maybe with someone else. I don’t want to look back in 4 years, while I’m sitting in grad school, reading about relationships between small land owners and growing townships and think, “why did I stay at that winery when I was no longer learning? I should have packed up, moved on, and found the next thing.”

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

10am break: wine, cheese, bread, coffee.

The past couple weeks have opened my eyes to a few things and potentially set in motion events that would lead to my leaving France earlier than expected. I’ll start with the highlights… The pictures you’re seeing are from an olive oil estate. Marie offered my help this week to a friend of hers who owns the operation. I was treated graciously, and although I was charged the same amount of money per day for food and lodging ($25), I felt like I was actually getting what I paid for. By this I mean the food was excellent, I slept in a bedroom with heat, and my bathroom actually had a toilet. What’s more, the entire family went out of their way to make me feel at ease and comfortable in the new surroundings. I enjoyed the three days and nights I spent at their house very much, and realized how, uh, unaccommodating my situation at Pech Laurier has become.

Work.

Harvesting olives is an interesting operation. We laid large nets out beneath the trees and commenced to “comb” the trees with gyrating pitchforks made of carbon fiber and powered with rechargeable batteries. After the nets became too heavy to easily move from tree to tree, we’d empty them into crates. After all of the crates were full, we’d empty the crates into large bins by dumping the olives out of the crates four feet above the bins, and running an air blower to get rid of the leaves that were mixed with the olives. We did this for three days, and I left Wednesday night with 180€ in cash (this number will be important below).

The house at sunset.

I would have worked the rest of the week, but on Wednesday night Joel arrived to visit for a couple days while en route to Prague. I picked him up at the train station in Carcassonne and we grabbed some food before driving back to the estate. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t great during his short visit. It was windy and cool at the sea, so we spent Thursday afternoon in Narbonne drinking beer, visiting historical sites, and just hanging out.

Joel’s timing couldn’t have been better because I’ve been struggling with a few things lately – namely estate politics and lack of friends. I received my second paycheck Thursday. For one (1) month, I grossed 1350€. After deductions for “food,” electricity, and French taxes, I netted 440€. That’s for 31 days. 440€. That’s not cool. Also, because the estate is isolated in the country and I don’t have regular access to a vehicle, I’m beginning to feel the strain of having no personal connections. It’s nice to talk to people on the phone and online, but spending time with Joel reminded me of how much more fun it is to share experiences with people you care about. While I knew that I wouldn’t be living in the city, I think I underestimated the isolation of my situation, and that has left me considering my options for the next three months I’m scheduled to spend in france. The first is to go to Prague if I think I can find a job. I already have friends in Prague with many connections to other English speakers. It’s beautiful city, and the cost of living is low. The second is to work the wine harvest in New Zealand, where people speak English and I’d have a better chance at actually developing new relationships with the locals. The last option is to stick it out here ‘till March, and re-evaluate at that time.

I don’t want it to sound like I’m complaining too much. Having the chance to live and work in france, while learning the language and making a little bit of money is a wonderful experience. I’ve enjoyed the opportunities I’ve had to see the country and learn about wine in a country steeped in such history. However, I also feel that I’ve been mislead regarding my living situation, and in some instances, flat lied to. Spending time with another family for three days – one that treated me well – showed me that my situation is less than ideal. Objectively, I would feel the same in a similar situation regardless of physical location. Needless to say, I have certainly learned a thing or two about clarifying details beforehand.

The spiral stairs go on forever...

The fortress at Carcassonne.

I’m not sure exactly why, but I always seem to be the last one to learn about what’s happening here at the winery. For example, last Tuesday at about 4pm, my supervisor told me that I didn’t have to work the next day. I figured I should borrow the car and take a trip in honor of All Saints Day, and Carcassonne seemed as good a place as any. The main attraction in Carcassonne is a fortress on a hill – the original city – built sometime beginning during the 7^th century.

Encore.

I don’t know the perimeter of the exterior wall, but I’ll just say that inside, there was a chateau, a cathedral, and everything else you’d find a medieval city. Of course none of the original shops still exist (who needs a blacksmith, anyway?). They’ve been replaced by hotels and souvenir shops selling plastic swords and cafés with €6 beers. But it’s from the outside, from far away, looking up to what remains striking even today, that your imagination runs wild.

Arc de Triomph

Friday I was able to work alone for the afternoon. I know that may seem weird, but because I’ve spent almost no time working alone, it was incredibly relaxing. I was pruning vines in one of our vineyards on a clear afternoon with the Pyrenees to my south… ah, it was nice - you had to be there…

Feel free to visit.

This weekend I headed to Montpellier. Montpellier is a university town with 60,000 students making up about a quarter of the population. Wikipedia said the average age of the town is about 26, and after spending a day walking around, I can’t disagree. But before I was able to walk around, I had to find a way out of the public pay bathrooms. If you haven’t been to Europe, many countries have bathrooms that you must pay to use. You insert coins, the door opens, and when you finish you push the handle to release the automatic door. Well, after using the toilet, I turned around to leave and noticed the handle to open the door was lying, broken, on the floor. I was locked in, and what’s worse, the bathrooms self-clean by spraying water everywhere. I picked up the broken handle and after realizing it was completely worthless, tried to use the car key. This also proved inadequate. I pushed on the door, but still nothing. I thought about staying inside and calling aloud for help, but this idea didn’t seem much good, either, because I don’t know how to say, “Help, I’m stuck in the bathroom. The door handle is broken.” I finally settled on lowering my shoulder and trying to break the door. However, I was beginning to become claustrophobic and I may have used a bit too much force. I ended up on the ground outside of the toilet, and the breaking door was loud enough to distract a group of old men from their bocce ball game 50 yards away. I think we all had a good laugh with that one. Yeah, ha ha.

I spent the rest of the day walking around town visiting the gardens, eating crepes with Nutella and bananas, drinking little beers with big prices (€5 for Budweiser), and climbing the Arc de Triumph (I think most major towns in France have one - insert French military joke here). Aside from getting lost a couple of times driving to and from Montpellier, it was a good trip.

Shoot to Kill

While many Americans may be under the impression that the French are entirely anti-gun, this is not universally true. “Hunting” is very popular in this part of the country. I use quotations because here because hunting in southern France is probably not what you expect. It’s certainly not what you see on ESPN’s Saturday morning hunting shows. It doesn’t involve traveling to remote locations, long hikes, or intelligence. You do not have to be smarter than your prey – you must only have enough dogs and guns to scare it into flight and hope that one of the 15 shots fired wounds the bird enough to drop it to the ground so the dogs can retrieve it.

Sunrise with fog

Our morning began early Saturday, before the sun rose, as we drove into a nearby vineyard. Almost all the vineyards are open to grouse hunting for anyone interested. In France, pump-action shotguns are illegal - you must have a semi-automatic, and a permit. I had neither. Initially, this was not a problem. For the first three hours of the day, we succeeded in getting nothing more than wet as we walked up and down rows of vines through the dense fog and heavy dew. At one point, Sylvain fired three shots, but hit nothing.

Breakfast

After making it back to the vehicles, we had breakfast. This consisted of two bottles of wine, bread, meat and cheese, for three people. This was the last time for the next 14 hours that I wasn’t somewhat influenced by alcohol. After eating, we drove about 5 minutes to another area Cedric and Sylvain thought might be good for hunting. At this point, Cedric did shoot some type of water bird, and after the dogs retrieved it from the stream, I asked if it was good to eat. His response: “It’s not horrible.”

More "hunting."

By now it was about 11:30, and we (read: they) decided it was time to rally the whole crew for drinks at Cedric’s house. For two hours, eight of us sat around and drank heavily. I made a point not to finish my drinks quickly, because the French feel obligated to give refills, and they have an assumption that all Americans like whiskey. Now, I’m as big a fan of whiskey as the next guy, but that’s still pretty early in the day for multiples considering we still had a lot more “hunting” ahead of us.


"Hunters" making sure that no live animals run to the trucks.

Next, we drove to a restaurant for dinner. This was another two hours of drinking, mixed with some eating. The food was great. They ordered me more whiskey before the meal, and we drank four liters of wine. Of course, the only things to do now were get more dogs and more guns and try to shoot more stuff.

We drove to an old estate not far from town and parked the 5 vehicles behind a building. The guys prepared their vests with a lot of ammo, gave me a gun, and released the hounds. We “hunted” ‘till dark, and this time had more success. The combination of eight men and at least as many dogs made it more difficult for animals to escape the vineyards. A couple guys shot rabbits, a couple more shot small birds. I got a bunch of mosquito bites, and nearly deported.

The game warden threatening to call more authorities.

It turns out the leader of our crew had taken us to someone else’s private property and that someone else called the hunting authorities. Apparently, we didn’t have permission to hunt that land. We were all asked to produce gun licenses, as well as hunting permits. Uh, yeah, about that… I’m learning a lot of French, but I don’t know hunting lingo, and it was pretty obvious that I didn’t have a permit. Long story short, a bunch of drunken guys with loaded guns that I didn’t really know bullied the nerdy French authority into just giving us a verbal warning, and we moved on. All in all, I had a great time, and slept well with the knowledge that I dodged a couple of bullets that day.

Medically declined.

During the past week, work has slowed down quite a bit. Friday, we pressed the final tank in the winery. That means we not longer have any grapes fermenting – only clear wine and pressed wine. While the fermentations will continue for the next couple of weeks, the majority of the work in the “cave” is complete. From this time on, we will perform routine tasks with the wine, such as racking (draining the wine from one tank to the next, and removing the sediment that has fallen out of solution), blending (self-explanatory?), and bottling. We will split time between the cave and the vineyards, where we will prune the vines in preparation for the next growing season, which I assume begins in March (or sometime around then).

Montouliers

On Friday, I went to Montpellier for my required doctor’s visit. It was only a small step in the unending process of applying for and receiving my carte de sejour (work permit) – at this rate I’ll receive final approval at about the time I leave the country.

Cruzy

The trip to Montpellier was actually really nice. I took the train from Beziers and got to see a lot of country (and a lot of Mediterranean Sea). The town of Montpellier is gorgeous. However, to really enjoy it, you must move past the first sight after leaving the train station – a giant McDonalds. After clearing that hurdle, it’s beautiful.

I don't know if you can spot it, but the 7 sets of golden arches may help. I took this shot from the terrace inside the train station.

My visit to the special government-employed doctors went well. After the basic height/weight measurements, I was informed that AIDS is not good and I was given more condoms than I knew what to do with. I actually had to give some back before stuffing the rest into my backpack. In the next room, I removed my shirt and had an X-ray taken of my chest. In the third and final room, the actual doctor listened to my heart and gave an initially disturbing interpretation of my chest film. He said my lungs and heart looked good. However, when I asked, “What is that,” he replied with something that sounded like “s’ tooma.” I asked if it was bad that I had an obvious tumor growing in my chest, and only confusing me more, he explained that it was NOT a problem. After seeing the apparent horror on my face, he realized our miscommunication and corrected himself. He had meant to say, “It is the stomach.”

"'s toomah"

Leaving the doctor’s office, I didn’t have much time to spend before the final train of the day to take me back to Beziers. I grabbed some food (the traumatic experience must have made me really hungry) and a [necessary] beer and bought a train ticket. I’m trying to work something out to spend a weekend in Montpellier soon – it’s the most happening town I’ve visited yet.

Chateau

First turns of the season.

This weekend was the first weekend that I’ve had both days off of work. I knew I wanted to get away for longer than a couple of hours, so I arranged to use a car all day Saturday. On Thursday I checked the forecast and it looked good – I was going to Andorra.


Looking west into the Pyrenees, the road to the capital below.

I left early Saturday morning and drove down the coast toward Perpignan, where I’d turn west. The drive was beautiful – the snow-capped mountains loomed ahead, the fall colors were beginning to show, and the roads were narrow and winding. I began to gain a lot of elevation and passed ski resort after ski resort, each growing more expansive than the last. I’ve gotta say, the Pyrenees far exceeded my expectations. I’d always thought of them as being kind of an “Appalachians” to the “Rockies” that are the Alps. I was wrong. The Pyrenees are tall (many 11,000’ + peaks), the valleys are deep, and life begins above treeline.

Pas de la Casa, Andorra.

Andorra is situated high in the east-central Pyrenees. It's a small country - only about 181 square miles (for reference, Denver County is 154 square miles). The pass elevation on the north side of the country is 7900’. The border town, Pas de la Casa, is what you’d expect in a country known as a “tax haven” - tons of shopping, huge hotels, ski resort base area, massive gas stations, and lots of tourists. Diesel was €0.79/L - €0.45/L less than in France, and I was able to buy a liter of Jack Daniels for only $18.10.

I love Andorra.

I drove south toward the capital, Andorra la Vella (in the process losing 3300’ in 15 miles), and began to realize what it’s like to live/spend time in a country where 80% of the GDP is from tourism, only 1/3 of the citizens are Andorran in nationality, and income tax doesn’t exist. Think about the natural scenery, nicest homes, and skiing in Aspen. Mix in the best shopping (without tax), high-rise hotels, and condos in New York City, concentrate it in a town of 22,000 people, and charge obscene amounts of money for parking. Now you’re in Andorra la Vella.

Border-town ski resort at 8500'.

As I drove around trying not to hit tourists and trying to find somewhere to put the car, I inadvertently entered a long tunnel leaving the capital leading toward another small town, and ended up driving for about 15 minutes the wrong way. After turning around and finding my way back into the city, I decided I’d wasted enough time and headed north again, toward France, toward the ski resorts, and away from the madness. I ate lunch outside under beautiful blue skies, surrounded by ski lifts and snow. I recommend Andorra.


Church in early morning light.

The trip back to Quarante went well. After the requisite border check re-entering France (keep in mind, I’m an American driving a car registered to someone living in Switzerland, leaving Andorra and entering France), I stopped to take a lot of pictures and to enjoy the universality of being in the mountains. The whole trip took about 11 hours, I stopped only for pictures and lunch, and I only drove 300 miles. Nothing happens as fast in Europe.

(More pics below)