Whoops I did it again.

I went to the market this morning with a very short list. Fruits and vegetables. Fruits and vegetables. And some fresh spaghetti for the kids.

I would *not* be swayed by the siren call of the basil-olive tapenade, by the succulent smell of the roasted, marinated tomatoes, by the smooth shell of a perfectly formed tortellini. Most of all, I would NOT yield to the temptation of any kind of fromage.

Well, I got my fruit.

I got my vegetables.

And I was on my way to get my spaghetti for the kids. But when it was my turn to be helped, the vendor wouldn't let his new assistant serve me. He told the new assistant: "She is my special friend -- I will get her spaghetti -- did you know her kids love this stuff?" And then when I told him that after today, I had just two more Saturdays at the market before "quitting" France, he didn't believe me. He looked so very, very sad. And he said I would always have a special place in his heart, and he hoped he would always have a special place in mine.

So of course I had to buy the tortellini.

And then, on my way to buy flowers for a gouter with friends this afternoon, I walked by my favorite cheese vendor. Or should I call her my dealer. She is, after all, the one who on my first visit had the nerve to suggest I try a new cheese she was offering that day, a tasty, salty gruyere that is made high in the mountains by cows that, I am sure, receive regular massages and manicures. What other explanation for the the price -- 44 euros per kilo? Yes, that's right, there is a cheese in the world that costs about $30 a pound -- and it IS that good. Really.

That first taste was free, of course. It  always is. And like a good junkie, I've been dutifully coming back each week to see what the latest specials are (although I only ever buy a small slice of the most delicious, expensive kind on the Saturdays she has it). So clearly, CLEARLY, when she stopped me this morning to say bonjour, when she said she missed seeing me last week, when we talked about chateaux and the Loire and a new cheese she had -- well, really, I had no other choice. Before I knew it, I was walking away with three small packets of cheese in my bag, and my wallet noticably lighter. The only saving grace is that she didn't have my (crazy expensive) gruyere this week. Otherwise I might not have been able to face John when I got home.

And finally, I had everything on my list (and then some). I was almost free. I was walking toward my car, almost all temptations behind me, and who do I see? The olive-tapenade-tomato vendor -- another of my favorites where I usually stop at every week but had purposefully walked by this morning. He caught my eye. He gave a warm bonjour.  How could I say no?

(Does it help that he gave me a good deal on it? Probably not.)

Clearly, I have a problem...and what a wonderful problem to have. But for the sake of our budget and our cholesterol, it is probably good we only have two Saturdays left.

Sigh.

Two Saturdays left.

This won't be easy.

Row, row, row your bateau

Beaune was its most beautiful yet Saturday morning, and so we headed to the market (which is getting so crowded with all of those *tourists* (we say, feeling like we aren't really one of them), then to lunch, and then to Le Parc de la Bouzaise (which John had never seen) while Kathy and Alex toured the Hotel Dieu (which all of us had enjoyed).

At the market, the kids took a turn on the carousel, while I visited my favorite cheese vendor and was praised (?) for my luxe taste in cheese. Uh-oh. I don't think that's actually a good thing. But we returned with a plate full of our favorites, as a gift from Kathy and Alex (now those are GOOD friends).

At the park, after playing in the maze, after looking at the animals, after watching Jack fly through the air on the crazy swing/merry-go-round-this-would-never-be-legal-in-the-U.S.-or-Canada piece of playground equipment, and watching Kate and Liv master the art of sliding down a fire pole (Uncle Steven would be so proud), we decided to take a little boat ride.

First Jack and I headed out... then John took all three kids.. It was the kind of afternoon where you might start humming to yourself something about life being but a dream...

Springtime at Le Chateau de la Rochepot

We decided to take a short day trip to a nearby castle while John was in Lyon (his talk went very well, by the way, and he enjoyed meeting with some of his European counterparts and talking shop. He did get caught up in some more train strike dramas (possibly a different strike altogether, but he eventually made it home), and he certainly didn't fall in love with Lyon, a city of nearly a half million to the south of us. If anything, he returned a bigger fan of Beaune than ever before).

So while he was hard at work, Kathy and Alex and the kids and I all headed to the Le Chateau de la Rochepot, about 10 kilometers south of Beaune. It dates back to the 13th century, and although much of it was torn down after the Revolution in 1789 (many of the stones were used to build houses in the village), the Carnot family restored this rocky-topped chateau in the 19th century.

These things (old castles, monasteries, churches, moats, dungeons, convents, cobbled streets, etc) *still* take our breath away (young and old).

We had to walk across a real drawbridge to get to the door, and it said to knock three times. Then we waited... and wondered who would answer. A very nice young French woman did, as a matter of fact... although one who (I found out later) lived in Hannah, Alberta, for two months last year to practice her English!

We got to wander through a few of the rooms, and then waited for a guided tour (with English notes for non-French speakers). I was worried Kate and Liv wouldn't do well during the tour, but they loved it. I think they are beginning to understand quite a bit of spoken French, even if they still aren't using much French themselves.

Jack's comprehension is just great. As if I needed proof -- after we left the tour, I started to ask the guide a question about something she had said. Jack answered me (fairly accurately) before she could!  Pas mal, n'est pas?

Editor's note (after adding pictures): Jack was clearly the most photogenic today. I have so many great shots of him, and not as many of Kate and Liv. I think it speaks to just how much this (not-so-) little boy loves castles (ask him about the guard room and its many magnificent weapons if you want to get some good stories) -- and how the girls were a bit tired, too (Liv's meltdown when it came time to leave -- she did NOT want to leave -- was proof of that, I suppose).

 

 

 

GUEST BLOG: Splattered with mud, bottle firmly in hand...

While I am the primary writer and keeper of this blog as well as the blog I kept in Japan, there were times in Japan when John had a say, too. It seemed to happen when he experienced something the rest of us didn't (taking Katie to the emergency room for her head wound, for example), or when something was so momentous and huge, we both had a lot to say (the election of Barack Obama, for example).

So, although I had my own account of some of yesterday's fun, I thought it would also be good to hear the story from John's point of view. Enjoy!

***

While it is generally good to write about these experiences while they are still fresh, the timing certainly shapes the description. If I wrote my account just after the race, I might have raved about the event under the influence of a runner's high (and bolstered by the treats given out at the end of the race as well as the prospect of picking up my bottle of wine). The rain and mud on the race course may have been more prominent features in the guest blog if I had written last night, as I became increasingly sore.

Instead, I am writing the next morning. There is no runner's high nor crippling soreness. Just a bit sore--enough to remind me that I did not train properly and that I am 15 years older than when I ran this distance in a much quicker 42 minutes.

I thought a bit about speed at various times in the course even though I was more motivated to run this race by vin than vitesse. The lure of the vin lived up to its billing--both the beauty of the vineyards and the fun of receiving the bottle of wine at the end. However during the race I couldn't help but think about the vitesse, and the lack of speed.

This race is much bigger than any I have been part of. They cap registration at 2,500, and the #2330 that I wore suggests that they had full numbers. The course is beautiful but also fairly narrow as it winds through the vineyards. We came rather late to the race despite the advice of our friend Thomas that for a good time you must start near the front as you will otherwise be stuck in the crowd bumping into other runners. I started far from the front, and he was right.

Runners were excited and jumping around as men with microphones stoked this enthusiasm and then counted down for the official start. The gun fired and if I hadn't heard it I would not have known the race started. There were so many people in front of me that we just kept jumping up and down as there was no way to move forward for what seemed like a long time. So much for speed at the beginning.

As the race went on the pack spread out and there were opportunities to pass people while avoiding the big puddles and the deepest mud. This allowed me to feel reasonably fast while passing people. The race was messy but fun in the early stages like here where I saw Lisa and Jack near the 3k mark and when passing through the impressive Château du Clos-de-Vougeot at the point where we turned back toward Nuits-Saint-Georges.

Not long after passing this chateau there was a second table with cups of water along the near side and what appeared to be pate, more substantial snacks, and perhaps some wine on the far side. Next time I will have to stop, linger on the other side of the table, and indulge in the original reasons for doing this run. However, this time I was still thinking about speed and grabbed a cup of water from a volunteer--there were an amazing number of volunteers in this remarkably well organized event--while on the move.  

At the time, not slowing to eat or drink seemed the thing to do. I was pleased that I was not tempted to walk at any point in this run, but when a joker passed me near the 8k mark it became clear that my "running" was often mere jogging. Yes, this participant was in the costume of a joker, like on a playing card. I had left most costumed participants behind earlier in the race, but perhaps I should not have been surprised by this alarming development. After all, two very tall drag queens in miniskirts had passed me 1 km earlier. 

This led to more philosophical musings about speed. I had passed many more runners than had passed me (this is not difficult to do when you start behind so many other runners), but I think serious runners would have been less tempted by the pate and wine and more concerned about being passed by anyone in costume. I became somewhat resigned to the thought, which turned out to be accurate, that my time would likely be one minute slower per year of age since the race I had run full-out 15 years ago.

Of course this does not have to be true. We have a friend in Canada who is older than me and she runs marathons and ultra-marathons every year with what seems to be faster times with age. But I did not think of her. Instead, I thought--with growing empathy--about the old Ford Mondeo station wagon that we are driving around the village here in France. 

The car we are borrowing has 250,000 km on the odometer and there are many signs that it is not as spry now as a decade ago. But, as they say here, il roule (it goes, it rolls), with a shrug suggesting that it is how it is and that is sufficient. That became my mantra when passed at 8 km by the joker. Il roule, et ca suffit.

Seeing the 9k sign was energizing and I shifted my inner Ford Mondeo into a higher gear and passed a dozen or two runners to finish in good form. Just as turning up a car radio can "fix" problems by preventing the driver from hearing thumps, whines, and sputters, I cranked up Lisa's iphone and ran that last km in the 4.5 minutes it took to play James' Born of Frustration.

After clipping off the electronic device on my shoe, which allowed them to record my modest time, I was pointed to an exit where I was given a bag of treats including this race shirt and a coupon to pick up a free wine glass at the tasting as part of the many festivities for the 49th vente des vins in Nuits- Saint-Georges.

Creaking body and all, it was great fun. The girls did not seem disappointed that I had not won the race and Jack and Lisa were able to see the full scope of the race and have very French race experiences of their own (she did get the wine and pate I had foolishly passed on). That link takes you back to Lisa's account of the day and the picture of the bottle of wine that initially motivated the run through mud-splattered spectacular scenery--vines, chateaus, jokers, drag queens, and all.

A day of castles, wine, chocolate...oh, and a 10K for John, too

The French, while certainly not perfect, do a lot of things VERY well.

I like the way they enjoy their food, and while I have been known to grumble occasionally to myself that stores and shops close every day between 12 and 2 p.m. (such PRIME shopping time for me!), deep down I am glad to know all of those employees get to go home and have a nice long lunch with their families, too.

I like the way almost all French people that I've encountered seem to actually LIKE children. They don't go overboard with accommodating them in certain ways (not a ton of booster seats or child menus in restaurants... but children are welcome to sit and enjoy whatever food they will eat off the regular menu)... but all that I've met (young and old), seem genuinely delighted with them, like to talk to them, and understand that they need to run and shout and play hard.

And, at the risk of losing my feminist credentials, I have to say I like the way French men treat women. There is none of the leering or staring or gawking... but there is a certain kind of appreciation of women that is just, well, nice. Doors are opened. Mothers are treated kindly. Feelings of respect and admiration of women are obvious (even to me, an outsider). It's pretty great!

I must now add another item to that fantastic list -- the French know how to do races just right. I asked John to write a "guest blog" to tell the point of view of the actual runner, but from my point of view, it was perfect. There were 2,500 runners, and more than enough volunteers to make things run smoothly. The race did in fact go through beautiful country, wrapping through a castle and along vineyards and up and down rolling hills. While he didn't do the official "gouter", John did see glasses of wine (and what he thought was pate) at some of the water stops. Back in town, he was able to pick up his beautiful, specially labelled bottle of a white burgundy.

And... the kids and I had a good time, too. Well, the girls took a much needed nap and spent the race looking like this:

Jack was wide awake and waited for the race to start looking like this:

After dropping John at the race start, I drove to the middle of a vineyard where the road was cut off. As soon as I explained that I had deux petites sleeping in the car but wanted to watch my husband and take some pictures, one of the kind volunteers let me drive forward, park by the blockade, and invited me and Jack to watch the race with him (see what I mean about French men?).

Some of the runners looked like this:

Others looked like this:

 John looked like this:

Allez, John, allez!

After cheering him on, the kind volunteer and I chatted some more. I mentioned how John had been eager to receive the bottle of wine after finishing. He said "oh, you like wine?" Bien sur, I said. So he pulled out an unlabeled green bottle of some wine he happened to have in the back of his van.

Then he pulled out some pate and crusty bread (see what I mean about appreciating food? I got the sense he'd never leave home without a supply of great wine and delicious snacks). He made sure Jack didn't hurt himself when he played on the old rock wall, and I enjoyed the wine and gout as we cheered the runners on (I shouted "Bravo!" while he shouted "Courage!").

And despite what could only be described as the world's least rigorous training effort, John finished in the top half or so of the 10K runners (I was impressed he finished at all, running in the rain and mud). A quick trip home to shower and have a gouter for the others who didn't enjoy the wine and pate... and we returned to Nuits-St-Georges for John to pick up his wine and for the kids and I to hit the end of the chocolate festival.

The kids were invited up to the stage to make little Easter confections. See what I mean about liking kids?

Yes, it's not a perfect country (no country is, right?). But the things they do right, the French seem to do so very, very right.

And -- to the American-Canadian-temporary-French man in this house --I just have to say bravo!