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)

Eat that! (...I'll try, but it won't be easy.)

When I was living in the states, the money I spent on food varied a bit. In California, for example, fruits and vegetables were cheaper because they weren't taxed as highly and didn't travel as far. The opposite was true in Nebraska and Colorado, where grains and beef were not as expensive. Taxes varied by state, and these taxes also influenced my grocery bills a bit - a total fluctuation of perhaps 5%.

Ski lifts in Andorra.

When I took this job in France, I was told I'd receive housing at “no cost.” I'm not saying I've got a great set up, room-wise, but I have a bed and bathroom and I'm doing alright. I did not know if I'd be charged for food living on the estate. This past Thursday was a bittersweet one for me as I received my first paycheck, and subsequently learned about the price of food in France.


Hazy afternoon with sea fog.

Back to the US. While living in Denver this spring and summer, I'd say I averaged about $250 per month for food. This included all three meals, every day, and a meal or two out to eat. I certainly wasn't eating gourmet, but I did buy a lot of organic goods and I didn't hold out on buying anything I wanted. So when I saw that I was being charged the equivalent of $750 per month for food in France, I was shocked. In fact, shocked doesn't begin to describe how I felt. Confused, irritated, and exploited are all better words.


Fall in southern France.

Marie explained that food is much more expensive in France, and she claimed it costs about $12.25 per meal to feed each one of us (myself, Bin, Yoshi, Marie). I've seen the prices on many of the food items we prepare, and I'll tell you right now that it doesn't cost anywhere near $50 per meal to feed the four of us - even if we charged ourselves retail for the wine (which of course costs nothing). She said this was because taxes are higher - perhaps on the order of 20%. Now, I don't want to do any heavy mental lifting this early in the morning, but I don't think $250 + (250 * .20) = $750. Call me crazy.

French Pyrenees.

I thought about her claims all afternoon, and Thursday night I sought clarification on the details of our transaction. I wanted to understand how it costs half a month's wages to feed me. I know I eat a lot, but it didn’t add up. I wanted to know how people live in France if it's truly that expensive to eat. Marie, who appeared somewhat irritated at my continuing questioning, began a 2 minute speech about how taxes are higher because the unemployment rate in France is through the roof and there are a lot of freeloaders that the government gives money and blah blah blah. I think she's trying to mitigate my "free" lodging by exploiting my cost to eat.


Ski resort on French-Andorran border.

Our "conversation" (read as: her monologue) went nowhere, and I learned that I'm powerless in this situation. I'm not fluent in French, and I fear that making too many waves will only lead to decreased amicability in our relationship. I've come to the conclusion that it's best to 1. Consider the charges as covering both my room and board (it makes me feel better), and 2. Try and actually eat $750 worth of food each month without gaining more than 50lbs.

Now I sea.

The center of Narbonne.

It's been a good week. After again being shut down at the Prefecture's office on Wednesday, I decided I must ask Marie for more help in my quest to finish my paperwork. She took me to the local town offices and we spoke with the mayor (mairie), who assured me that it wasn't necessary for me to return to Beziers to the Prefecture to complete my pending paperwork. In fact, I needed only to fill out a couple of additional documents, attach photos, and my carte de sejour could be completed in my own town. It was maybe the best news I'd received all week. He also made a couple of phone calls and we found out that Colorado is one of the states that participate in a driver's license exchange agreement with France. Therefore, I am good to drive, but need to get a translation made for local officials in the event I'm pulled over.

Trees burn here, too. Took this while on a run.

This weekend was the last that I'll have to work for a while. We finished the harvest yesterday (Saturday) and we no longer work 7 days a week. Today I was able to sleep in, and after lunch, I borrowed Bin's car and drove to Narbonne, a town on the sea. I spent the afternoon alone and off the estate for the first time since I arrived in France. I also drove to the Mediterranean Sea, where I experienced my first clothing-optional beach. Sadly, all of the people who decided to option that clothing should not have. Sometimes, it's tough to catch a break.

Sunny afternoon on the sea. Note unintended naked child at lower right.

The weather was beautiful - low 80s - and the water was warm. My people were at the beach and on the sea, and I discovered my new favorite food, crepes with Nutella. It is a dish best served hot, and after one serving at the beach with a beer, I enjoyed another back in Narbonne before returning to the estate. The area near the sea is incredible as substantial stone cliffs rise immediately west of the small beachside town. It's an impressive backdrop with the Pyrenees in the distance.

Bocce, anyone? Too-tight swimwear required for the men.

I have no idea what the signs below are intended to convey to the viewer. Someone told me the one on the left is what a tanker truck looks like from behind, and the one on the right is what the front of your car looks like if you drive into the tanker truck. I didn't think anyone needed clarification of such things. Apparently I am wrong.



We had an interesting conversation at dinner the other night. Apparently, Manon, the daughter, has a communist teacher in school (I've been told French teachers are way, way leftist, like communist/marxist leftist). That teacher told the students that the reason behind Americans voting on Tuesdays is because only the rich people can afford to take off of work to complete their civic duty - obviously a ploy of the "right." I laughed a lot, then found this website, which I think provides a slightly more accurate description of why Tuesday was chosen as the day we vote, over 160 years ago ( http://usgovinfo.about.com/library/weekly/aa102500a.htm )

The International Language of Bullshit.

It seems bureaucracy is truly the only international language. Some may claim English the international language of commerce. I'll call bullshit the international language of government offices. Local shops in tourist towns may provide an English speaker for their clientel, and while it would be wrong to say these interpreters are well-versed in the English, questions are answered, items are purchased, and customers are made, albiet slowly. Walk into a government office, and well, things go from "slow" to "glacial," regardless of language.

The town of Cruzy.

Today, at the Prefecture (city-county building), my “understanding” of bureaucracy was reinforced with titan strength. After traveling 30 minutes to apply for my paperwork to work legally in france, I arrived at 9AM and was told I was too late for today, and that it was necessary to return another day. Tomorrow was of course out of the question. The office would be closed. I must return Wednesday morning before 8:30 in order to get my ticket and wait, wait, wait.

A chateau in the distance.

After learning this information, I decided I’d ask about obtaining my international driver’s license – after all, the office was in the same building. I waited in line for about 10 minutes watching the man in front of me become so frustrated that he stormed out. At that point, I almost felt at ease knowing that bureaucracy is spoken everywhere, and what's more, I understood it loud and clear.

Charles operating the harvester.

My short conversation with the woman behind the glass window ended with my understanding that I must first obtain my carte de sejour – the document I was denied the ability to apply for only 15 minutes earlier. Until that time, I guess my Colorado driver’s license will work – after all, I have nothing to drive and no where to go. I suppose Wednesday I’ll return to Beziers, wait on line, and possibly, with a lot of patience and a lot of luck, convey my intention to apply for a work permit. If things go well, I may even give that driver's license another run.

Finally, instead of ending this post with nothing positive, I've attached a few completely unrelated pictures.