How to Get to Madrid...in 17 Easy Steps!

After my last entry, packed up my laptop and headed for the train station. My bus was supposed to leave at 10:15p and I wanted to be there early. So I sat at the station cafe and passed the time. When it was around 9:30, I headed over to where the bus would pull in and camped out. 10:00...10:15...10:30...no bus. There were only a handful of people hanging around and none of them spoke English. At 11:00, I gave up and figured the bus wasn't coming. Time for plan B...oh, wait...there is no plan B!!! So I crossed the street and checked into the hotel there (luckily not too expensive). They had free Wi-Fi, so I surfed to check train schedules. There seemed to be an 8:20 train, but it wouldn't let me book. After checking into rental cars (not a single car to be had in Narbonne) I figured I would get up early, buy a ticket at the station and be on my way. I slept fitfully through the night - it turns out things are noisy across from the station -and awoke early. After a quick shower (and dragging my 2 dreadfully heavy bags back downstairs) I was in line at the ticket window. But, alas, the train was sold out. Now I knew why it wouldn't work over the internet. So I considered options and decided to try and get to Barcelona. Back to the ticket line. When I made it to an agent, she told me that she couldn't book tickets for Barcelona because the train was set to leave in less than 10 minutes. However, if I talked to the conductor, I might get on. At about this point, an American man popped to the front of the line and said he was trying the same thing. So we sprinted out to the platform to find the conductor. He spoke no English, but he made it readily clear we weren't going to be getting on that train. So we headed back to ticket line for a third try. The ticket agent was very nice and laid out a plan for us. She could book us tickets to Cerbère, which is the last city in France before Spain. She could also book us tickets from Port Bou (the first city over the border in Spain) to Barcelona. We would just need to find a way over the mountains between the two cities. At this point Jamie and I were game for about anything, so we took it. The ride to Cerbère was relatively short and we went about finding a taxi. Turns out there were several other guys from Mexico City trying the same angle as us. We shared a cab over the mountains and found ourselves at Port Bou. Jamie spoke some Spanish and managed to get us a train to Barcelona an hour before the agent had booked us. A quick croissant and coke and we were on the train again. Barcelona station was a pretty intense place. You have to go through security to get on and off the platforms, not to mention the shock of all of the Spanish after weeks of French! After meandering for a while through the station, I found the correct window to buy a ticket to Madrid (the agent in France was unable to book this leg for me). Upon reaching the window, the lady immediately starting bawling me out for having 3 bags (only 2 were allowed) and told me I couldn't board the train with all of them. I talked as sweetly as I could, and eventually she sold me a ticket, but warned me they still may not let me board. At this point, I was willing to take my chances. Jamie and I parted ways (he was headed to Ibiza) and I went to brave security. Turns out, no one batted an eye at me. I lugged my bags on board and settled in for the 3 hour ride. The train had a readout that showed current speed, and most of the time we were travelling at 300 km/h (about 180 mph). Off the train, into a taxi and I arrived at the Cat's Hostel, my home for the next week.

Apple Pie

The weed battle continues. I have spent most of the last week and a half weeding anything and everything you can think of (aided by my new iPod Nano - Thanks JEN!). I weeded the garden, the roses and the area around the main water spigot. I also scraped, scooped and carted away loads of broken clay tiles that blew off of the roofs and broke in an intense winter storm in January. But after all of the "désherbage" came the throw of the gauntlet. I was told, since I was the best WWOOFer chef they had ever had (after my Jambalaya preparation) that I should make Apple Crumble (Apple Crisp) for them. I told them that Apple Crumble was really more British and that the truly American item was Apple Pie. They wanted to test and compare both of them. So I set about making a pan of each one. Quite interesting to try and figure out how much flour, butter, etc. to use and also to figure out temperatures in Celsius! The resulting creations were scarfed down quickly by all, and even Bernard proclaimed the Apple Pie the winner.

On Wednesday, several new WWOOFers. a couple from Maryland, came to La Sabine. Aaron and Jenny are traveling Europe for 71 days, I believe. They came from Morocco and Spain. It was nice to have some English speakers around. Bertrand always did his best to speak English, but it was a challenge for him to explain my myriad questions. I'm not sure if it was a going away trip for me, or just restlessnes on Bertrand's part, but on Thursday, we worked all morning and then took off for a road trip - Bertrand, Aaron, Jenny, Nicolas and myself. We headed south into the heart of Cathar country, stopping for some pictures of a Chateau perched upon a mountaintop. Eventually we reached Cucugnan, where we ate lunch at a small café (boy was that Affligem tasty!) and headed up to Château de Quéribus. This is a place that is perched upon a rocky peak and seemingly impossible to reach. In fact, it was the last Cathar stronghold to fall, holding out until 1255. As an advance lookout for Château de Peyrepertuse, it helped to guard the frontier between Catalonie and Occitanie from the 13th to the 17th Century. The view from the extreme height is impressive, affording an unparalled view of both Corbieres and Roussillon. Next stop was for a tasting at a winery in Roussillon - Mas Amiel. I was eagerly anticipating the visit, as Rousillon wine is relatively rare in the Twin Cities. In addition to traditional dry red wines, Mas Amiel produces red and white sweet wines, in addition to oxidized sweet red wines. For the latter, some of the wine if placed in large glass carboys and placed in the sun for a year or so. This wine, mixed with sweet wine that is not oxidized, creates a blend that is mind-blowing. It has the taste of Madiera mixed with the taste of dried fruits. Absolutely amazing, although admittedly not in most Americans taste lexicon. I couldn't leave without buying a few bottles (one in particular that is destined for TO). The next stop (after some impressive French traffic jams [incidentally, a great place to learn French cuss words] was the city of Banyuls. Located mere kilometers from Spain and on the Mediterranean coast, Banyuls is a lovely town and an AOC within Roussillon. The vines stretch all of the way to the sea and are exceptionally picturesque. We strolled the sea and bought fresh cherries, melons and apricots from a vendor. Dinner was procured at a cute harborside café. I had moules gratinée and monkfish with some local rosé. A beatiful ending to a beautiful day. Thursday brought a huge rack of ribs grilled over vine coals and a bottle of Mas Amiel (Le Plaisir Blanc) that I provided as an aperitif. Topped off by a showing of The Princess Bride and all was well with the world.

This morning I washed my clothes, dryed them on the line and proceeded to see if I could, again, fit everything into my 2 bags. After a 5 week stay at Chateau la Sabine, it had started to feel like home. But time is like a river, and I needed to float on with it. Bertrand, Aaron and Jenny all accompanied me to Lezignan to catch the train (which turned out to be a bus) to Narbonne. That's where I currently am, writing this entry. I managed to stagger down the street a mile or so and get to a quant cafe where I had the largest pot of mussels for lunch that I've ever seen (Narbonne is right on the Med). I couldn't help but wash them down with a local bottle of rosé Syrah. Tonight, I board the bus for a 13 1/2 hour ride to Madrid. If I survive, you'll see more posts from Spain! A bientot!

Jambalaya

The last week or so has been quite busy…with weeds. I started last week by pruning back every rose bush on the property, which is a considerable number. Upon completion of that project I moved on to the weeds. First, there was the lower half of the garden. This part of the garden has all of the plants sown from seeds, and they are all still very small. My job was to clear away all of the weeds while leaving the tiny vegetables to flourish. I managed to clear all of the ‘herbs’ (the French don’t have a word for weeds – they consider all plants worthy. Some are just misplaced) without destroying the veggies and then moved on to oiling the terrace with Linseed oil. It smells great and was actually quite easy to apply with a roller. Too bad it was over so soon, because then it was back to – you guessed it –weeding! It’s amazing how many weeds pop up everywhere when you don’t use any pesticides. Across the front of the terrace there are rose bushes and a flowering plant that is native to the region (and whose name I do not know). Me, my hoe, my gloves and the mower tackled them with passion and soon had carved them out from the savage field of grass and weeds that encompasses the acre or two off the terrace.

At Chateau la Sabine, Benard and Catherine like to have their WWOOFers cook an American dish during their stay. We had previously discussed what I could make. At first, I had a hard time figuring out what I could cook that wasn’t French. And then it hit me – Jambalaya. Long ago, while my friend John was still in town, I had found a great recipe for Jambalaya that came from Brett Favre’s Steakhouse in Green Bay. I guess Brett couldn’t resist adding in a bit of his Mississippi culture. Speaking of Brett…is he a Viking yet? Anyway, I wrote the recipe in the WWOOFer book they keep of all of the meals that have been cooked and proceeded to make a grocery list. I found out that what we call Andouille sausage doesn’t exist in France. It’s also really hard to explain Marinara sauce. But in the end, close approximations were found, and I started to prep on Sunday, the day of the meal. A key ingredient is shrimp. Chateau la Sabine is about 30 minutes from the Mediterranean Sea, so shrimp are plentiful. They’re also fresh – heads, shells, etc. I started to clean them and my hosts looked at me very strangely. They didn’t understand why I thought it necessary to de-vein the little critters. I figured that I would continue to do so in order to make it an American dish. Their incredulous looks were priceless. The meal turned out wonderfully, although it was almost too hot for Maëlle. Since the recipe has served me so well all of these years, I thought I’d include it here. It’s had a few modifications from the original, based upon what I’ve found to work best. Make it and pop open a nice bottle of Languedoc rosé and enjoy!

Jambalaya

olive oil
½ lb. andouille sausage, sliced
½ lb. smoked sausage, sliced
large onion, chopped
3 bell peppers (red, yellow, orange), diced
2 cups celery, chopped
4 gloves garlic, minced
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. lemon pepper
1 tsp. Cajun seasoning
1 tbsp. oregano
1 tsp. white pepper
2 tsp. black pepper
½ cup fresh chopped parsley
1 tsp. thyme
1 tsp. basil
2 tsp. sugar
½ cup fresh chopped chives
2-3 medium tomatoes, diced
2 cups marinara sauce
½ cup chopped green onion
6 chicken breasts, cubed
2 cups medium shrimp
¼ cup stock
2 cups white rice

In a large Dutch oven, heat the olive oil and sauté the sausages until browned. Add the onion, bell peppers, celery, garlic, bay leaves, salt, cayenne pepper, lemon pepper, Cajun seasoning, oregano, white pepper, black pepper, parsley, thyme, basil, sugar, chives, tomatoes, marinara and green onions; stir and simmer for about 10 minutes. Add chicken and simmer an additional 15 minutes. Add the shrimp and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the chicken stock and rice; cover and simmer an additional 25 minutes or until rice tests done.

...I wonder...

I awoke this morning and looked outside my window to see a sky of grey sea salt – almost uniformly colored, yet with a slight kernalization.  At least it meant the rain was going to hold off.  Over the last few days, the radiant sun and abundant wind had given way to cooler temperatures and intermittent rain.  A welcome change, in some ways, as working in the glaring sunlight tends to sap my energy quickly.  Saturday’s main task was preparing for the Jazz concert to be hosted that night.  The reception hall needed to be cleaned of cobwebs, tables (barrels with a circular top placed over them) wiped and kitchen stocked with wine from the cave.  In addition to wine and jazz, there was also to be food – greens, tomatoes, spicy red peppers with garlic, country pâté, thinly sliced ham, onion tart, melon slices, blood sausage and chèvre.  Its preparation was commencing in the kitchen, so I joined in the fun.  Roll the dough, cut it into small circles, brush each mini tart pan with olive oil, artfully form the dough into it, fill with sautéed purple onion and a mixture of milk, crème fraîche and eggs.  Wash, de-stem and cube an entire crate of tomatoes.  Carry the prepared items to the small kitchen beside the reception hall and listen as the band setup their equipment.  The group consisted of three members – acoustic guitar, bass (one of those electric jobs on a tripod with nothing more than a neck and strings) and drums – two small hand drums (which my friend Tim O’Brien could easily identify, but for which I have no names).  Maëlle artfully arranged the food items on the plates, the band played, the guests ate and drank and a grand time was had by all.

But today’s job was not so light.  Bernard loves roses and has many of them planted throughout the property.  He even has them planted, in the Burgundian style, at the ends of many rows of vines.  We had roses in the yard when I was growing up, but I don’t remember doing much with them except to prune them back in the fall and cover them with straw.  Today’s task was to prune all of the dead-heads from the myriad patches and throw the remains in the field beyond the vines.  An important task, as it allows the new buds to break out into the sunshine and produce a new flowering in several weeks.  And also, a great time to think.

On Sunday, Catherine was kind enough to offer me her car in order to get away from the vineyard for a while.  Chateau la Sabine is quite isolated – the nearest town is several miles away and only has a café, grocery, pharmacy and post office.  I decided to set out for Fontfroide Abbey.  The abbey, named after the well of cool water around which it was built was magnificent.  Built in the 11th Century for a Benedictine community which later converted to be a Cistercian community, it at one time housed 200 monks in addition to many peasants who had taken the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, but were not monks and could therefore work in the abbey farms.  During the slaughter of the Cathars, the abbey was spared, as it sided with the pope.  A slight historical aside:  The Cathars were a heretical branch of the Catholic church that flourished in the 12th and 13th Centuries.  They believed that all matter was evil and therefore Jesus could never have been both of the flesh and the Son of God.  The church, obviously, deemed this highly heretical.  And so the pope, being the kind, benevolent father figure that he was, commenced a war against the Cathars and killed them all – men, women and children.  The area where I am currently staying is the heart of the Cathar country.

 As I pruned my rose bushes, I couldn’t help but think about the abbey and the bloody history of the area I was in.  And what if the pope still commanded an army today?  Standoffs between the Secret Service and the Papal forces over whether President Obama could enter the grounds of Notre Dame University?  Pontifical ransacking of abortion clinics?  Gay pride parades turned into battle zones?  And what about the whole monks and chastity and homosexuality thing?  Was don’t ask/don’t tell in place in those days, too?  And could it count as sexual harassment if everything was non-verbal, due to the vow of silence?  And these thoughts then started to meld with the book I am currently reading, on the birth of Islam and the forging of Europe c. 700-1200 CE.  Every major religion (and even some smaller ones) slaughtered countless thousands from other religions in the name of ‘their’ God.  And to what gain?  And how did serene, beautiful monuments such as Fontfroide come about in such a culture of violence?

Another event which adds to Fontfroide’s luster and fame was the election of their former abbot as pope.  Another historical aside:  In the 14th Century, Philip the Fair, King of France was able to use his cunning to get the pope (who was a former French cardinal) to relocate the papacy from Rome to Avignon, in the south of France.  Pope Benedict XII (former abbot of Fontfroide) was the third pope of Avignon and famously commenced the building of the papal palace which still stands in Avignon today.  Several popes later, a schism occurred, with popes sitting in both Rome and Avignon (and at one point there were actually three popes), but when the dust settled, a single pope remained in Rome.  The ‘Babylonian Captivity’ was over.

Fontfroide never produced another pope (although one of the brothers became the papal legate for the process of persecuting the Knights Templar) and eventually the Black Plague reduced the number of brothers to less than 10.  During these days greed took over and the abbey would have seemed to be more of a chateau with several lords, than a religious community.  Even those who have taken vows of poverty can be tempted by riches.  The abbey was disbanded during the French Revolution and was repopluated with monks in the mid 19th Century.  They were eventually driven out my law changes and the abbey sat empty for several years.  In the early 20^th Century, it was in danger of being lost forever.  At this point in history, many buildings in France were being sold to rich Americans, who had them disassembled, shipped to America and reassembled in various forms (two such examples are the St. Joan of Arc chapel on the Marquette campus in Milwaukee, and the Cloisters – a branch of NYC’s Metropolitan Museum which is a conglomeration of at least four abbey cloisters and other architectural items from Europe which have been built into a single building in Washington Heights, Manhattan).  Luckily, a rich Frenchman come forward and bought the property.  Although he made quite few non-historical changes to the buildings, it was also his work that saved the complex from falling into ruin. 

As the wispy mist swirled among the vines and mountains and I continued to clear away the dead rose heads in order to give way to the new, I thought about transformations – of me during my sojourn in Europe, of the lives of my friends and family, and of this world.  And I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Roses and Rosé

So remember those roses I wrote of last time?  Well, I thought I had seen the last of them, but alas, it was not to be.  The previous work on them involved reclaiming the roses from a field of grass, prickers and weeds.  In order for them to be finished, Bernard informed me that I needed to weed in between all of them as well.  Now, these bushes are planted rather close together in 10 or 12 patches.  Weeding around them meant sitting on the ground (amongst and on the prickers) and slowly working my way around each patch, reaching into the recesses of the plants in order to get every last weed.  My arms currently look like Bruce Willis' by the end of 'Die Hard' - totally shredded.  I sure hope that all of the people who come to stay in the rooms and attend the Jazz concerts appreciate them!

After several additional days in the roses, I got a lucky break.  Bertrand needed help in the cellar with the wines.  It turns out that two huge vats of wine - a white and a rosé - had some issues.  They were from the 2007 harvest, but had become oxidized ("older whites may brown...").  So we took a powdered chemical called PVPP and added it to the vats.  Now let me tell you, adding powder to several hundred gallons of wine is quite a trick.  First you fill a smaller container with about 20 gallons of the wine (and always start with the white, so you don't get any added color!) and add the PVPP.  Let it sit for 20 minutes and then use a gigantic pump to suck it into the vat.  Now, put one hose over the top of the vat and one on the lower outlet and proceed to pump all of the wine through in order to mix it up.  Once finished, repeat with the rosé.  The rosé also got a treatment of something which was mainly compsed of dried out fish.  I'm not sure what its purpose was.  I guess all wines here aren't "non-interventionist"!

On Saturday, the Chateau is hosting a Jazz concert with wine and small plates.  I've been working to power wash and oil the terrace, in addition to sweeping cobwebs from the reception room (which is right off of the celler...easy access).  Also on Saturday, I will be joined by 2 new WWOOFers - a couple.  He's from Scotland and she's from Denmark.  It should add a whole new level of craziness to the accents and speech around here.  Barnard has a hard time understanding an American accent, but he says a Scottish accent is even harder.  Maybe we'll all end up speaking Danish.

A bientot!

La Sabine

France...at last!

Hello all!  I've been here in France now for a week or so, and all is well.

I should never believe what you hear about air travel.  Anticipating long delays, due to my one way ticket, I arrived at the Humphrey Terminal, care of Tim O., three hours before my flight.  Upon reaching the counter I did have a minor scare when the agent called a supervisor over to inquire as to whether my one way ticket was OK.  She replied that as long as I wasn’t staying in Iceland, it was fine.  I guess they don’t want any new residents in Iceland!  I checked my two bags (the one coming in exactly at the weight limit) and headed to security.  There was no line and I breezed right on through.  I then had 2 ¾ hours to kill in the airport.  I bought a book and proceeded to read for the next several hours.  Boarding was smooth and we took off on time.  In spite of it being almost 8:00, I wasn’t the slightest bit tired.  I ended up reading my book all of the way to Iceland.  We disembarked the plane and headed through immigration.  They didn’t ask me a thing…they just looked at my passport and stamped it.  An hour later we were in the air again, headed to Paris.  Sleep again eluded me, but I finished my book (and left it on the plane for a new reader).  Upon landing in Paris, I started to dread my trip to the train station…it was raining.  After claiming my two bags, I was on the bus to Paris, which deposited me at Gare de Lyon…a short distance across the Seine from Gare d’Austerlitz, the station from which I would depart Paris.  My fears about my bags being a lot to handle were confirmed.  I’m quite sure I shrunk an inch under the weight of them.  I stumbled toward the bridge, and just as I headed out into the open, the skies opened up and it started to pour.  Ahh…May in Paris.  I made it to the other side and camped out under a small grove of trees to wait it out.  Half an hour later I continued my trek to the station and finally made it to the ticket counter.  Rail strike.  Train cancelled.  Luckily, the woman at the counter was able to find a non-direct route south for me that was still running.  And it left in only 7 hours.  I thought about stowing my luggage and heading out to see a bit of the city, but ended up parking myself at the station café instead.  Several carafes later, I realized I needed to let my first hosts know that I would be into the station later than expected.  Internet was only available to those who already had an account, so I decided to make a phone call instead.  Luckily, Bernard answered, as he speaks a bit of English!  I informed him of the situation and he was not concerned in the least.  Several hours later, I boarded the train, reclined my seat and settled in for a long, restless night amongst the other travelers.  Turns out the French can snore as well as Americans.  I can’t tell you a thing about what most of the scenery looked like, but it was beautiful when the first light started to illuminate the country outside the window.   A quick change in Toulouse to the slow train (which stopped at every small city or station possible) and I soon found myself stepping off at my destination…Lezignan-Corbieres.  Catherine (Bernard’s wife) was waiting for me and we stuffed my very large bags into every nook and cranny available in her little car.  The ride was full of silence and wonder…she spoke almost no English, but the scenery that awaited me held my attention.  The Pyrenees could be seen far off in the distance, with beautiful green mountains in the foreground.  The mountains were covered with lush green trees and scrub brush with liberal sections of craggy outcroppings.  20 minutes later we turned up the drive to Chateau  la Sabine.

La Sabine is a beautiful, wind-swept vineyard in the middle of Corbieres.  It is home to Catherine and Bernard Mallent, their children Maëlle (18) and Nicolas (14), 4 cats, 2 dogs, 2 donkeys, a horse and many chickens, ducks and guinea hens.  It occupies 20 hectares (about 50 acres) and consists of vines, pasture and gardens.  For the first week, there were two other WWOOFers here - Melanie and Jane, two 19 year old girls from New York.  They left today, so it is now very quiet!

The work has been hard, but interesting.  The first day we went to the edge of the pasture to harvest bamboo (no Home Depot here!) to use in making a tomato trellis.  The next several days were spent weeding the rose bushes.  They were firmly ensconced in a filed of grass and weeds that often reached chest high.  Hot, dirty, tiring work.  But the roses look great now.  Yesterday and today have been spent training vines.  Some vines can just grow up as they like and some need to be trained between wires.  Yesterday we did the Syrah and today I am working on the Carignan.

Everything isn't all work here, though.  On Sunday, we had the day off and went to a fair in Lezignan.  Booths setup with homemade sausages/meats, wines and olive oil to taste, trout to catch in the pond, and music!  The bands were hilarious.  One played bagpipes that looked like small stuffed sheep and another (bandes) was from the rugby/bull fighting circuit.  The night we  headed off to Gruissan for the street party.  Live bands, beer, dancing...all in the narrow streets of the heart of town.  Bertrand, who had driven us there, was too drunk to drive home.  So I took the wheel and piloted his Renault the 30 miles home through the fog and darkness.

Well there ou have it...a rather disjointed, poorly written account of my first week in France.  A bientot!