High Aperture.

It's hard to believe tomorrow is December. Here, it feels like Wyoming on a cold summer day.

The King of Rue du Nord.

Dogs rule the streets in Villesèque. I got a few shots before he granted me passage.

Saturday Afternoon Café & Market.

Bustling Perpignan.
I love how the men all sit next to each other at the outside tables so they can people-watch. Oh yea: that's a castle in the background.

Black Friday At La Bərgerie.

We ate Thanksgiving leftovers at La Bərgerie, an ancient stone house once used by sheep herders, in the mountains above Villesèque. My Jackson friends would love this place. It, and much of the land in the mountains around Villesèque, is protected by the French government. Therefore, if someone is willing, they may live in La Bərgerie, but they may not modify it. Today it is a crumbling, stone-walled structure with a big fireplace, a dining room with a long, uneven wooden table, a tiny sitting area, a lofted bedroom, and loads of character. Nepalese prayer flags hang over the door, homemade artwork is propped across the mantle, and political messages and random doo-dads from faraway places hang on the walls. There is no running water or electricity. About 15 of us ate dinner by candlelight as the inhabitant showed a slideshow from his recent paragliding/mountain biking expedition in Nepal.My social life is, umm, more tranquille here than in Jackson, so I was excited to go to a dinner party at La Bərgerie. In the past few weeks I'd noticed life up there: smoke from fires, cars winding up toward the plateau and disappearing into the brush, and even occasional music thumping. Last Sunday someone was really getting down up there. I felt bass vibrating across our very quiet valley. I got curious real fast and walked from Villesèque toward the mountains, following the vibration. At the bottom of a narrow gravel road, I took note of a random blouse set up like a scarecrow pointing in the direction of bonfire smoke. I promised myself I would go up there...eventually. Getting invited to a dinner party made it easy.

I've yet to see La Bərgerie in the daylight, but this UTube video shows the "playground" in the backyard. I'm guessing this part has been slightly modified.

A French Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in France seems like the ultimate oxy-moron, does it not? Keep in mind I am working for an American school. Still, I was pleasantly surprised by how many French people--mostly friends of the directors and staff--showed up to celebrate our American holiday. We had about 70 people for dinner. Many of the students' parents came to visit and made traditional dishes. What did my roommate and I contribute? Nothing less than a dinde itself. As the French would say, oh la la, attention!We were clueless. The sides were touching, the top was almost touching...isn't that a fire hazard? I tried to ask the French chef if this mattered. She gave me the usual eye-roll and grunted, in her thick accent, "duu not ask me!!" Mmmkay. On second thought, we'll just Google it.

Megan and I realized yesterday that there must have been small print in our contracts that said: "Employee will do anything deemed necessary by the school, including cook turkeys for 70 people that have traveled thousands of miles and will not tolerate getting food poisoning during their vacation in Europe." Alors, it turned out fine. My first turkey is behind me.We put on a slideshow before dinner. That, too, went really well. There are some truly talented photogs in this group of students....not unlike Thanksgiving at home: various pies and bottles of wine.

The Calm Before The Storm.

I felt very much at home here on Wednesday and Thursday, running around setting up for a huge party. I've spent a significant part of my life waiting tables and catering weddings; the only difference here was the language barrier. Before Wednesday, I could not for the life of me remember the translation for turkey. I just kept saying l'oiseau (the bird). By now I have heard la dinde (the turkey) so many times that I will never forget it. We had five dindes.

Night Night.

The Elixir of Long Life.

I had my first experiences with the French dish tartiflette and the famous Chartreuse, both in one night. YUM and YUCK. Tartiflette is a traditional dish from the French Alps. Romain, being both a chef and from the mountain town of Grenoble, whipped it up for Marie and me. It's like a tart/pot pie with potatoes, bacon, and Reblochon cheese. Apparently this is the ultimate après ski-tour dinner. We will have to put it to the test in Chamonix in December.

Green Chartreuse, the "elixir of long life," took me back to my baby days of gagging on paregoric. It contains over a hundred different herbs, flowers, and secret ingredients, and it tastes like burning, minty alcohol. But it is a 400-year-old potion produced by monks in the Alps near Grenoble, known for its medicinal powers for digestion (and for really enjoying a party). I had to try it.

This is how it works: you set a sugar cube in a dish of Chartreuse, let it soak, then pop the cube in your mouth and chew. And swallow. It gives me the willies to think about it.

Smiling like a fool.

Gagging.
My friends found this very amusing...worth documenting.

It made my cheeks feel tingly.

Day Off In Fonjoncouse.

 Et après, at the bar in Durban des Corbières.

La Radio.

I blocked it out for the last month:  the fact that there's a delicate bone graft sitting in my ankle, needing a final x-ray.  I feared that familiar feeling of devastation:  that kick in the gut, when the doctor rubs his chin, looks at the floor, and tells you you're going to have to start all over again...  

It's been almost eight months since my accident in Yosemite.  Eight months.  Though there were moments when I felt like I would be on crutches for the rest of my life, I can still say that time flies.

I finally got that x-ray, la radio, this morning (most people work on Saturdays here.  Who said the French don't work enough?).  I then dragged one of my students onto the terrace to help me make photos of it.  EWWW!! she shrieked.  Hmm...oops.  It didn't occur to me that it was gross.  Eight months and about 30 x-rays ago, I might have felt the same way.  I cannot remember.

I emailed jpegs to the wonderful Dr. Williams in Jackson today.  I will try not to have too many sleepless nights awaiting his feedback.

Bleu.

NamNamNam.

It is taking forever for this tree to eat the sign. 

Eat it already!

Hunting Cats, Zooming In.

My zoom lens sat on my desk for a month and a half.  I lent it to a student yesterday for her "Cats of Villesèque" photo project, once I realized that chasing cats around with a short lens was more like PE than photo class. 

As we walked around together, cat-hunting and shooting, I realized that I missed zooming in.  Alors, I went on a solo zooming mission today, which inevitably turned into cat hunting.  They are everywhere, and some of them follow us around like dogs.  Spaying and neutering is looked down upon in France.  Here in Villesèque, it's all too obvious.  Child brides abound.

**Alley, does this sound familiar?  Reminiscent of The Cats of Greece?  Or Honorable Cat?  We all come full circle, we really do.  I wonder if cats would follow me around in life if my name was not Cat.

Last [Candy] Man Standing.

Meet the world's largest Gummy Bear. Mr. Bear equals 1400 regular-sized gummy bears and 12,600 calories, in case you're counting these days. He is currently having his thighs cut off in lieu of dessert. Eating him seems to require a team effort. Normally sugar disappears within seconds around here, but Mr. Bear is holding his ground quite well.

Living abroad is not just walking through vineyards and speaking French and eating brie cheese and taking photos; it is investigating the incoming care packages, which are often just as exciting as anything else.

I Spy.

Two cats. Beers when I get back for whoever spots them first.

Teenage Wasteland.

I can't believe I haven't posted a photo of the school before now.

The Emerald Isle.

Everything you've heard is true. They wear green, hang out for hours in pubs, say "cheers" instead of thanks, have light eyes and fair skin and strawberry hair and big hearty laughs, and their land is a breathtaking spread of bright green mountains and cliff-lined coasts. I love this country, I love its people, and I want to go back.

As far as photos...where do I begin? I was shooting constantly. No wonder the landscape is known for inspiring some of history's greatest poets and artists. Here are a handful of images.

Day One: Dublin - Wicklow Mountains - Kilkenny.
Arriving in Dublin and getting our little Euro-car. First challenge: driving on the left side of the road (driver's seat on the right side). Talk about a test in sensing space and direction. I kept drifting to the left on the highway because I felt like I should be sitting in the seat on the left side of the lane. And when I went to park the first day, Megan instinctively reached toward the gear shift and moved her feet like they were on pedals, feeling all out of sorts just riding along in the left seat. We had a few...several...heart-stopping moments in the car. Especially because the roundabouts there go in the opposite direction.
This is just one of the hundreds of gorgeous, old buildings in Dublin.

We got lucky with three somewhat-sunny days in Ireland. It's far enough north that the sun never sits directly overhead in the wintertime, and the directional light makes everything so beautiful it doesn't seem fair that people actually live there.

Day Two: Kilkenny - Waterford - Blarney - Bantry Bay.Irish breakfast in Kilkenny. FYI: bacon is not bacon in Ireland; it is a slab of fatty ham. At least the Irish DO drink big cups of coffee, unlike France and Spain where an Americana or "large cafe" is a small cup of slightly-watered-down espresso. Waterford, the oldest city in Ireland. This is how I imagine Copenhagen.
Kissing the Blarney Stone at the Blarney Castle. The stone, a bluestone set into the side of this castle in 1446, is supposed to endow its visitors with "the gift of gab" and lifelong luck in love. We shall see about that.

I am baffled by the castles: tiny, steep stairways, ledges and windows looking down at hundred-foot falls, and secret dwarf rooms tucked into all the little nooks. I tried to imagine the Blarney Castle without the gates and signs and manicured lawns, filled with people actually living there hundreds of years ago. It's hard to believe.
View from the Family Room of the Blarney Castle.

Day Three: Bay of Bantry - Kilarney National Forest - Kilarney - Dingle Peninsula.Good morning, with a slight hangover, in Bantry Bay. The sleepy town of Bantry marked our first experience in a true Irish pub. The lack of tourists in November left us fending for ourselves among the locals. We quickly discovered that in Ireland, when people meet you and enjoy talking to you, they buy you a round of beers. And another. And then a round of Bailey's. Never go out in Ireland thinking you'll have one quick drink unless you plan on sitting silently in a dark corner.
Ireland has the most confusing street signs I've ever encountered. The arrows inevitably point toward nothing, or toward the sky, or in two directions at once. We made countless terrifying U-turns, each time trying to figure out if we were still on the right (left) side of the road. By day two, I accepted the fact that when driving felt right, it was wrong.Kilarney National Forest, just outside the quaint mountain town of Kilarney.Rolling, green hillsides and mountains between Kilarney and Dingle. I want to go back and frolic through these fields.Inch Beach on the Dingle Peninsula, complete with surfers and a pink sunset and mountains towering in the distance. This might be one of the most scenic beaches on earth.

Day Four: Dingle - O'Connor Pass - LahinchDriving the scenic, narrow, cliff-lined O'Connor Pass road in the rain.Blackberries on the coast of the Dingle Peninsula. I could get lost and never find my way home from this peninsula. The interior has big, rocky mountains, and the coast has a laid-back surfer-town vibe.

Day Five: Lahinch - Cliffs of Moher - The Burren - Ballyvaughan - Galway - DublinThe Cliffs of Moher crash 400 feet straight down into the Atlantic Ocean on the West coast of Ireland. Climbing up the hillside to see the cliffs felt like stepping off the Jackson Hole Tram on a blow-down day. The wind was so strong I could lean right into it, and the rain blew into my face so hard that my cheeks are still rosy.
The Burren, a "karst" landscape on the West coast, is known for its mysterious caves, ancient tombs, Celtic crosses, and ring forts. The ground is covered with a bizarre natural pavement of limestone; climbers and cavers flock to The Burren. I could sit and stare at this landscape for hours. It was so interesting to me.
A cairn in the middle of The Burren.
A castle somewhere on the West coast in Clare County.
Galway: this was the last (and one of the best) stops. Galway is the "cultural capital" of Ireland. Its pedestrian streets are so lively, filled with music and pubs and bustling coffee shops. We stopped here for coffee before making the three-hour trek across the interior back to Dublin on Thursday night. Like the pubs, the coffee shops can suck you in for hours. The locals like to talk. I love them.

Day Six: Back In Francia.We were sad to leave Ireland. It felt like home, with friendly people, no language barrier, and a slower pace of life. We almost missed our flight due to road construction in Dublin (I sprinted through the airport with my big backpack on, almost limp-free!). I think subconsciously we were trying to miss it. One of you will have to give me an excuse to go back soon.

Since we landed in France, I've done nothing but hang out at the train station in Narbonne, waiting either for my ride or for students that need a ride. It's back to "Bonjour" and driving a manual among crazy French drivers in zippy roundabouts...almost as much of a rush as driving on the left side of the road.

This Week's Posts Coming Soon.

We are leaving for Ireland. Check back next weekend for some photos of pubs and rolling green hills and castles and the Blarney Stone!

How To Cure Olives.

I love picking and preparing fruits and veggies. Laugh it up. I can just hear those of you who know what a dunce I am in the kitchen. I was reprimanded the other day for messing up frozen croissants (at least now I can come back to the U.S. and brag that I know how to make crêpes). But really, it is so rewarding to go out and pick a week's worth of grapes or figs.

Right now the olives are going off. You can stand next to a single tree and pick for an hour. Unlike figs, you can't eat while you pick: these things taste as bad as the poisonous bitter almonds that also thrive here. So, you have to gather a little bundle of olives, take them home, and soak them in salt water for 4-5 days. Each day you drain out the old water and re-immerse in a fresh batch of salt and water.

It is day three. Zina, our little Tunisian housekeeper who taught me how to cure them, had the guts to taste one today. "Aye! La merde (sh*t)!" she screamed. They need a few more days.

Crêpe/Dance Party.

Scooping out my first crêpe.
Breaking to dance. Break dancing. Dance-breaking.
Serving it up: a perfectly hole-y crêpe. I liked to think my crêpes were artsy looking. I think some others liked to think they just looked American. Sigh.