tranisition

For every departure there is an arrival -- a banality, yes, that, but one that most certainly describes this day for me.

Leaving Sorede. We're in the old bakery and Ed finds his usual chair to sit in while I do the purchases.
Two pains au chocolat.
Monsieur is tired? The bread ladies laugh. It is rather early to be tired already.










Oh, it's the end of our vacation, I explain, only half truthfully. I limit myself to statements that are quickly and easily said in French. The line is forming, I can't linger. Still, I do want to say goodbye. People come and go, they write blogs, they stop writing them for unstated reasons, they disappear. I don't want to be like that. Let them believe that they were important enough to us these two weeks that, when we leave, we say thank you and good bye.

We'd said goodbye to Gunter and Baerbel (our hosts) already. In fact, I'd been up since daybreak cleaning the little apartment; it is a point of pride for me to turn it over nearly as spotless as it was presented to us. I am so grateful that in the first year of our stay in Sorede (in a place with issues) we came across their rental unit, tended with such care! I want them to know how happy and proud we are to be their returning guests. I say this with a choke in my voice. [We wont see them next June, but we're hatching other plans, other possibilities -- I am never without ideas!]

Ed had taken our walking sticks -- ones we carefully picked on the mountain, in the midst of our hike, not relishing a steep descent without something to hang onto -- and hid them carefully in the forest, just to the side of our Sorede home.
Look -- they'll be here (he leads me to a hidden spot, chosen with care, so that rains and winds wont carry them away), in case you come back without me.





We talk like that, he and I. We take nothing for granted.


So now we are at the cafe bar one last time, chomping away on the pains as if nothing is different, even as I can tell that the configuration of sun and shade is entirely different than in the late mornings when we were typically here.

Did I tell you it is, again, a brilliantly sunny morning?



the mountain we scaled




the walk to the upper square




a grandfather and his little one, under the linden tree





the cafe bar



I say to our spectacular waitress as well that we are leaving.
So soon?
The French have such quaint ideas about the length of vacations.


 



I drive us out of Sorede, pulling up just outside our village to take in the view.






One last time, the loveliness of the place. No, really, just one last time!






And then it's a smooth sail to Barcelona airport (without traffic, barely a two hour drive; the speed limits are very high here). As we park our rental car, we see the enormous lines of people, waiting to pick up their vehicles. Oh, vacation has come to southern Europe! Time to leave!

We have tickets on Easy Jet -- one of any number of discount airlines that shuttle passengers between popular European destinations (eg: Barcelona to Milan: under $40). It's a no frill airline that charges for everything over and above the bare minimum, but that's fine. We are traveling with the bare minimum. Including the leftovers from our Soredian refrigerator. Which make for a fine lunch, on the airport floor.






Initially I groan. From the beauty of the Sorede patio to this? But I see how carefully Ed has laid out all our leftovers, how sweetly charming it is to eat these favorites of ours on the floor of a busy terminal (before security, so we can finish up the juices and waters)  and I melt.



We fly to Milan and again, it's all easy -- no delays, no excitement in the air or on the ground -- just the perfect flight and the perfect bus ride to town where, at the train station, we find the perfect cafe bar (so urban!) to while away the hour until the train departs.











Where to? Trieste for tonight -- an Italian port town just at the border with Slovenia. 

Not many of us travel great distances to spend time in Trieste, unless we're in fact bound for Slovenia or Croatia. Trieste is surrounded on two sides by Slovenia and on one side by water - which should give you a good idea of what tugs existed in its past. Wiki tells me that at one time, Trieste was the fourth largest city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. These days, if someone were to ask me what associations I have with the city, I'll say -- it's a port.

That it is. But as we pull into the station -- the last stop after a 4.5 hour ride -- we see none of that. It's nearly midnight and we're tired. I have a vague idea as to where our hotel is located and so we set out, on foot, in search of the little Hotel Coppe.

Well now, it may be nearly midnight, but there are several notable things about Trieste: the full moon (the largest of 2013!) shines brightly on this beautiful now not-so-large city!





And, as its Saturday, there are a great many people out and about. Many many cafes and bars are open -- lots of places to pick up an ice cream cone. We do that. Dinner was an inconsequential thing -- eating on the train any leftovers we could dig up from our packs -- stale bread, a warm chunk of cheese, Figueres oranges. An ice cream now sounds exquisite.





And finally, there's our little Coppe -- old outside, modern and all white inside, welcoming.





You'd think we'd throw down the bags and stay in our room, but no. The city beckons. We go out. Not for long, not far, but enough to see and admire a most beautiful communal space -- the square that spills out to the sea.





I can't focus on details now -- it is so very late and loading even more photos seems like such a chore, but I did want to note here that the city tonight belongs to the young people





Okay, maybe not that young. I'm thinking of the dating years -- when women dress well and guys dress less well and there are groups of each and occasional pairings and it all feels like we've stepped into a world one third our age.





But this is hardly a complaint. It's a vibrant lovely world out there in Trieste tonight. We're happy we caught a little glimpse of it.

From Italy, briefly, a good night, under the supermoon  that we have over us all tonight.

June 21

Cafe Bar Les Alberes


Comme d'habitude? -- she asks. (As always?)
No, not as always -- there's only today and a brief minute tomorrow and then what was 'always' is no more.

And in any case,  Ed has changed his routine. Today it's cafe creme for me and hot chocolate for him -- I say to our very excellent waitress. A minute later she is back and we're delighted to see that this morning we get the little croissants, gratis, as sometimes they are there and sometimes they are not and a positive surprise is always (there's that word again!) a good thing.





Here's another big and very welcome surprise: the day dawns with sunshine and blue skies. The forecast said rains are coming to Sorede, for just a day. Having avoided them for the better part of two weeks here (with minor early exceptions), it was a shame that we should get them on our last day and now it appears that we are waking up to a brilliant day, sparing us the rains and that feels very lucky indeed.

It continues to be a glorious morning as we make our way with our pains au chocolat to the cafe bar.







I'm thinking -- it's good to know that life goes on in this way in Sorede and that it will continue thus even though we wont be here and somehow it is a huge comfort to know that this is so.






Apart from it being our last day here, it is also one of my most very favorite days of the year -- the long one, the one that gives us most light (in the northern hemisphere) and therefore, in my opinion, most joy...


 


...And in France - it gives music. Because if you are in this country on June 21, you're bound to hear music on the streets. (Though they say that many nations now celebrate summer solstice in this way, the Fete de la Musique started in France and so I tend to associate it with this country.)

So in Sorede, unless the rains get in the way, there will be music.

But not yet. I write this early (in my little red book), sitting at my favorite morning spot this side of the Atlantic and whatever may be later, or tomorrow or in the year ahead, this prevailing calm, the Sorede calm, the calm that comes from the breezes that pass by the blooms on the linden tree, is with me now and I tell myself that I must try to take it home, to my real home, the one with the prairie grasses and box elder trees that grow crazily and in a perpetual race with my gardens and our orchards at the farmette.




[I love this Soredian sun clock! It isn't at all true to the hour, yet it's maintained as if it were a treasure. Isn't that as it should be? Isn't the worth of something determined by how well we care for it?]



Le Racou beach


For once we don't have to weigh the umbrella down with sand. We're at the beach  -- hurry up! the glorious skies wont last! -- and a dainty breeze comes in from the sea,  a refreshing cool breeze -- nothing like the raging winds that made your hair stand on end and caused your umbrella to catapult to the sea.






I try hard to stay under the umbrella. The sun is not my friend -- I keep reminding myself of this, even as it feels so grand to sink into the pebbly sand and let that sunny warmth spread across my back, all the way down to the heels of my feet. The sand molds and adjusts to all my imperfections, like a made to order bed that is kind to you, your belly, your cheek, your fingers too. It would be so easy to forget about time, forget about Fridays, Saturdays, all days. All that matters is the caress of that warm breeze on your back and the gentle sound of ripply waters.

Ripply waters, ripply waters -- ah yes. We should swim.






It's not exactly warm in the sea and the ripply waters give a bit of a bounce to the exercise, but I do go in and eventually Ed does as well and I'm surely glad that we had this one last chance to get wet and salty, one last chance...

[Are striped umbrellas *in* this year, or what? Are we behind the times?]











...before the clouds roll in. Out of nowhere they emerge and we pack our things and head home. Sorede home, stopping at a fruit stand, because it's there and so are we.






And, too, we stop at the supermarket for added cheeses, and of course at the BEST BREAD BAKERY EVER, for a loaf of lunch bread. Anything else?






Yes, than one!






Lunch

Sure enough, the clouds bring rain. By afternoon there is a steady drizzle and we have to thank our hosts once again for building a house with a roofed terrace so that we can eat our lunch without worry about the wetness beyond.







Dinner


Well, so we saved the best eating venue for last. Or, perhaps that's not fair -- the best took place every day we were here. But the quintessentially great French cooking certainly was saved until this night. And it delivered.

First of all, my sincere sympathies to the musicians who were planning on filling the square with music tonight: you got rained out. I'm sorry about that. There was much commotion and kid traffic on the square, but it was clear that the rains just stayed too long into the evening for it to be a musical success.

Second of all -- I'm still filled with wonder when I look at the skies and see rain one minute and a beautiful heaven above the next.

Driving down to dinner, we paused by the little vineyard. I nearly cried at the beauty of this little space against the backdrop of a splendid sky. (In truth, I nearly cried very many times today, so you should not use this as a marker of tearful-worthy moments.)





Dinner at Le Salamandre, the best of the best in Sorede, is superb. It is so late and we have so much to do to get ourselves out of here by daybreak tomorrow, that you'll just have to believe me without the effusive descriptions -- it was a fabulous one-and-only for us restaurant meal in France.

And, too, I provide you with a shot of the owners' newest two month old:





I have to say, this restaurant is astonishing on many, many levels -- not the least of which is the fact that the owners do everything themselves. Just the two of them. How they can cook, seat, clear, attend to, clean, cater, smile, answer questions, etc etc between just the two of them is a mystery -- but they do it perfectly!

It's a grand evening in Sorede. The rains have passed, the air is so squeaky crisp, the promise of the summer is before the lot of them.






A good season to all of you! And a good year as well!






Tomorrow, we fly to Italy, though only for a night. Then onto Slovenia.

vines and such

Every morning, as we walk down to the village, we pass the robust little vineyard to the side of the road. It's well tended this year. The weeds are under control.


cc


Today we encounter someone working the rows. He's protecting the vines (with an application of sulfur and copper) against powdery mildew and other fungi -- a real problem in warm moist environments. If ever there was a year to worry about excessive moisture in France! Vouvrey vineyards destroyed last week by hail. Insufficient sun in the Loire valley, floods elsewhere, constant rain. Here, in the south, the rains haven't been excessive, but the moisture level remains high.

I ask the vine caretaker what caused the damage to some of the vines toward the front: entire branches have been torn off and I cannot imagine what wild beast could have attacked his crop so viciously.
Leh-vahnn -- he tells me. He points to the mountains, to Spain -- leh-vahnn.
I'm spinning this in my head for a minute. What animal is that?? Wait, wait, I'm in the south: let's make an adjustment for the nasal accent here: oh, of course -- le vent -- the wind!
Yes, yes, leh-vahnn, it blows viciously and snaps the fragile young branches. 

Right now, we can just see the emergent grapes. Last year, they were well formed by now.






When we return from our morning at the cafe, he is still there, working.


 


So I have more questions. Like -- what is the low electrical fence for? What wild animal would be deterred by it?
Sanglier! He says, with conviction. From the mountains -- le sanglier! I confirm this on my computer at home. Wild boar! Yes, I know about wild boar!


Our morning pause at the cafe is now one of the last ones and I have to say, it feels different already. There are more people stopping by today. The vacation months are slowly descending on the south of France and it's already causing a stir. The sleepiness of the square is morphing into something more lively, maybe even exciting.





Me, I take in the usual: those who pause and have a conversation with their neighbor. The little French and Catalan flags, the linden tree.






Of all things in Sorede, this is what I remember most when I'm not here -- the morning gaze out at the world from a table at the cafe bar, at our breads first, then, with some curiosity, toward other patrons, toward the square.






Eventually we leave, this time passing the local school. A group of kids is returning from an excursion. I see they came equipped with an essential snack!






It's another not great swimming weather day. And maybe that's good. Maybe we have done our bit by the sea. Maybe this year our eyes are meant to trace the contours of the mountains, different each day as the clouds come and go.





As we follow the road back to our Sorede home, we pass, as always, the figure of Christ. It was spiffed up just four years ago -- an interesting act of respect. This older woman crosses herself every time she passes by it. But you wont find any younger person doing the same. In fact, church attendance in France is at an all time low (and I should note it's even lower in a handful of other European countries): fewer than 10% report attending services and at least 60% report never going to church, for any reason. (In the US -- 25% report never going to church and, at least according to some fairly typical recent polls, between 40 and 60% report attending services anywhere from once weekly to several times a year. In Poland, church attendance is even higher -- topping 60%.)






Still, you could hardly say that old rituals and traditions have gone by the wayside in France, leaving these villages without spirit and without celebration. We'll be leaving, for example, just before the annual June 23 Saint John's hoopla -- announced in every store window in town (Sant Joan in Catalan). Here it is, in the window of the Ciboulette.





We'd witnessed the festivities in years past -- lighted torches carried from the sanctuary at the top of a mountain, young, old, dancing the traditional Sardana -- these celebrations draw nearly every resident in the village. Year after year, the same set of rituals, repeated in much the same way.

Funny how that works.

Lunch. I'm really trying to clean out the fridge now. Such a finality in that act! This is it -- the last carrot, the last few olives! Slabs of cheese!






Late afternoon. The skies continue to be uncertain (this is the worst that it gets in the region of nearly perpetual sunshine -- we are having an unusually high dose of uncertainty).

I suggest that we go to the next village just west of us -- Laroque-des-Alberes -- and hike from it using only the iPhone's GPS. We had failed with it on the mountain last week -- let's learn it already so that when we hike with it next week (not in France), we'll have it as a backup device, to help us when we get (inevitably) lost.

So we do just that: we go to Laroque, park the car, right by the bakery and therefore we actually start with buing sweet treats for the next two days: macarons and biscuits.


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And then we set out.
Where to? Ed asks.
I look up at the hills and peeks. Get us to that village there, the one perched halfway up that mountain!
And he does just that! And it is a beautiful walk.

Through the tight streets and alleys of Larocque (and forgive me here because it really is a pretty little village, but I do love Sorede best, so I can't swoon as much).



Laroque-des-Alberes


On a detour toward the old mill...






Then, leaving the village, past garden plots with terrific beds of veggies, fruits, flowers.















And up the hills some more, passing the Almond House (where they harvest almonds and produce fantastic almond oils -- for the stomach, for the skin).











We keep walking: up and west. It's quiet here, in these forested hills. So quiet that, as we walk along, I almost miss spotting him -- the stealthy fox.





We stare at him, he stares at us -- all in frozen silence -- and then he darts, quickly, quietly. Gone.

Ed and I climb higher -- for the views and because we know that this is the last good Pyrenee hike we'll have for a long while.



(my love for the great Roussillon plane knows no bounds. Especially, but not only, at dusk...)


And then we climb down again.






Back in Laroque, we pause at a cafe. Ed's thinking beer, I'm thinking a glass of wine and both go so well with the local oysters -- harvested just north of La Franqui beach. 





But that's just a snack. Our real supper is at the square again -- pizza at the cafe bar. A vegetarian one, with fresh artichoke hearts.





...So that I can wistfully think about the day we'll be back, maybe cooking up artichokes then and climbing bigger mountains and spending more time in the sea... Maybe then, maybe, maybe... sigh...