The French Monastery

On Wednesday Jacob and I left our house in the south of France and took the train west towards Toulouse. Some three hours later we were met by my Uncle Olivier, who is a Benedictine monk living in a nearby monastery.

Since then we have been staying at the monastery guesthouse, enjoying the unique experience of a first-hand look into the life of a monastery.

First to lay down some facts and dispel some common misassumptions:

-      - Benedictine monks follow the order of St. Benedict, a sort of denomination of Catholicism.

-       -Yes, my Uncle Olivier has left the monastery since becoming a monk – in fact; he travels quite frequently on representational business for the monastery.

-       -No, Benedictine monks do not regard women as evil, alien, or substandard to men.

-      - Benedictine monks are not ascetic, which means they eat regularly, speak regularly, are sociable, and do not practice self-flagellation.   

I am sorry if many of these things are blatantly obvious… but it’s worth clearing up if there is any confusion. Moving on.

We have enjoyed the rhythm of life at the monastery, which for guests at least, is mostly dictated by masses and meals. Several liturgical ceremonies are held daily, from Morning Prayer and Mass to evening Vespers. They are beautiful, prayerful, and meditative times, even if I barely understand what they are saying.

Meals are a lot of fun, although they take some adjusting. Meals are held in silence, while we listen to music or one of the monks reading out loud. When we asked Olivier why the meals were held in silence, we were surprised by his answer. He responded very simply, “We eat all of our meals together every day for years…it would be difficult to make conversation all of the time.” Very true.

There are fun dynamics to eating a family-style meal in silence with a table full of strangers (the majority of whom are also people staying in the monastery guesthouse). The potential awkwardness and challenges of communication tends to put people in a jolly mood. Yesterday at lunch, a very happy nun taught Jacob (in silence), the proper way to eat a kiwi.  (Cut it in half, and then use a spoon to scoop out the fruit).

On Thursday my uncle took the day off to show Jacob and I around the city of Albi. It was incredible. As much time as I have spent in France, I have not traveled it much as an adult. There are so many incredible regions to explore, and the region the monastery is located in is breathtaking.

Albi is (yet again), an old medieval city, famous for an incredible painted cathedral and a museum to the French painter and illustrator Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

The cathedral at Albi is amazing for it’s huge size and austere Gothic façade. From the outside, the church looks more like a fortress than a place of worship.

And then you go inside, and are suddenly surrounded by lavish paintings and carvings that utterly contradict the solemnity of the outside.

Next to the Cathedral is the museum of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, which is contained in the old Bishop’s palace. That place is pretty amazing too. The views of Albi from the garden are gorgeous.

The old town surrounding these buildings is beautifully medieval, in a style that looks almost Germanic (or English). Until now, I had never seen buildings like this in the south of France.

After leaving Albi, we made a stop by a picturesque little village named Lautrec (yes, like the painter Toulouse-Lautrec). This place was unreal. It was just too…perfect. It looks like the movie set of Chocolat. I decided when I am old; I want to live in a little village just like this.

 The next day, Uncle Olivier took Jacob and I on a hike near the monastery. We hiked up a mountain to a little chapel over looking the valleys. When I say we hiked up a mountain – I mean we ascended straight up, with no switchbacks, for 520 meters. My uncle barely broke a sweat (unlike me).  The view was worth it.

On Monday morning we leave for Istanbul, Turkey!

The Grape Harvest

September is the month of grape harvesting in France, known as the “Vendage”. 

Nearly every region in France produces wine, with some of the world’s most famed wines coming from valleys not too far away from our house.  

Jacob and I have learned a lot about the Vendage in the past week. Our dear friend Jaki just went off to the region of Bourgogne where she will be paid a lot of money to harvest grapes by hand for the next two weeks. Most vineyards harvest their grapes with machines, but the really good wine – the really, really expensive stuff, gets harvested by hand. Jaki told us about how the wine is so exclusive; it is reserved and purchased by the rich and famous years before the wine is even made. This year, some wealthy Japanese businessmen have already purchased all the wine to be made in 2012. 

Jacob and I had the privilege to join in a “Petite Vendage”, hosted by some family friends. Every year they hold the same celebration: invite all of their friends over to help harvest the grapes, followed by a feast that lasts twice as long as the hours you actually worked.

Informed that we were to show up at 7.30 am for the Vendage to begin, Jacob and I woke up while it was still dark out, and drove over to our friends’ house. The house was all closed up, and I, having not been there in six years, couldn’t promise that we were actually in the right place. Thankfully, our friends heard our voices outside, and appeared on the deck in their bathrobes. Apparently it was 9.30 am we were supposed to meet – not 7.30.

Whoops.  At the proper time, we reconvened and drove out to the vineyard.

It was sweaty, backbreaking work. The grapes grow on the lower part of the vines, which rarely grow taller than hip-level. But we were with a merry bunch of people, and between all of us, we got the work done in about four hours. 

As the buckets of grapes grew full, we began to bring them to the Cave – the place where the wine is made. This particular Cave is very, very old. We were told several times about how once, King Louis XIII slept in that very building.

Inside the Cave, there was a hand-cranked machine that ground the grapes, stems and all, into a pulp. Then the pulp and juice was thrown into a stone basin where it would be allowed to ferment.

After the work was done, the feasting began.

We have enjoyed several of the famous French-style dinners since being here, but this was by far the most intense. The French commonly eat their meals in courses. A typical dinner will start with a salad, then a main course with one or two side dishes. A cheese and fruit course will follow, sometimes followed by dessert. If it is a formal dinner with guests, you can expect at least 4 courses, spaced over about 3 hours.  

The lunch we had after the Vendage boasted 7 courses in 4 hours.

When the eating finished, Jacob and I made our rounds of goodbyes and were shocked when asked, “Wait – you’re not staying for dinner?”

It took us a while to recover from that meal.

Another day Jacob and I went to a nearby mountain called Mt. Bouquet. For being a relatively small mountain, it has spectacular views.

A few days later, Jacob and I made a day trip to the city of Avignon. Avignon is a beautiful medieval city (of course) that sits right on the Rhone River.  It is in the heart of a region where the famous Cotes-Du-Rhone wine comes from.

 The following Wednesday Jacob and I returned our rental car, and have been prohibited to traveling only as far as we can bike. It’s been a good time to rest, eat, and catch up on sleep.

Adventures in France

After our travel adventures (detailed in the previous post), it was with a sense of relief that Jacob and I settled into France.

Our destination was the south of France, where I have the privilege of a large network of extended family and friends. My mother grew up in this area, and after my grandparents passed away, she inherited the house that they had owned. I spent many happy childhood summers in France with my family, and was looking forward to introducing Jacob to this special place.

We spent our first weekend with my Aunt and Uncle, who live in the city of Nimes. Nimes is quite typical for a small European city – with this exception: it is covered in Roman ruins. It is a surprise to many visitors to arrive in the south of France and find that the Romans have once occupied this land. Their occupation is evident however, in the ruins and architecture they left all over the countryside.

Therefore in Nimes, you have one of the only existing Coliseums outside of Rome. (The French would argue that this Coliseum is better than the one in Rome too…It’s in better condition, and is still regularly used for bullfights, music festivals, and theatrical performances).

Jacob and I also visited the Roman gardens in the city, and the ruined temple that has essentially become a playground for local children. While wandering through the gardens, Jacob and I happened across three separate wedding celebrations. One of them was a Moroccan wedding with a public parade including drums, trumpets, and dancing. It was a pretty fun spectacle to witness.

On Monday Jacob and I left Nimes and picked up our friend Luke. Luke is a friend and former roommate of Jacob’s from college days. He has been working in Austria, and contacted us just a couple days earlier about coming to visit. Miraculously, everything worked out on short notice, and we had the great pleasure of hosting him at our house for three days.

We had many adventures during the time Luke spent with us. Not the least of these adventures was Jacob and Luke’s bravery in burying the hedgehog that had drowned in our pool.

And the incredible double (and at one point triple!) rainbow we saw on a stormy afternoon. (Yes, I did freak out when I saw it. Jacob likes to make fun of me for that.)

We spent a day on the beaches of the Mediterranean, and explored the medieval walled city of Aigues-Mortes.

The next day we drove to the mountain town of Anduze, and trekked to the river for a swim. Growing up, my family had spent many days at this river – it has always been one of my favorite places. To get there you must first walk along the train tracks, and pass through a deceptively long tunnel (hoping the whole time that the train won’t come while you are in the tunnel). 

After the tunnel you break off the tracks, and head through the woods until you find the canal. Walking on the narrow wall of the canal, you continue on until you come to the river and choose your spot to settle down.

The air and water were the prefect temperature, but it was an overcast day, which meant we had the river entirely to ourselves.  It was a wonderful afternoon.

The next afternoon we said goodbye to Luke who was on his way to visit friends in London. Since then Jacob and I have eaten a lot of French food, usually served to us in 5 courses throughout 3 hour dinners, when invited to a friend’s house.

No, we are not complaining.

More on that to come later. 

The Travel Post

This is the story of Jacob and I making our way from Prague to Paris.

To begin with, every time we re-pack our bags, Jacob and I have this stunning realization: we packed too much.

It became abundantly clear (yet again) when we arrived in Prague; dragging our ridiculously heavy luggage over three types of public transportation to get from the airport to our apartment.

To help the situation, we decided to each get rid of 5 items before we left Prague. That my friends, is how I gave up my Italian boots.

We can call this part of the post: “Elegy for Italian Boots”.

They were beautiful; I had bought them in Rome.

Knee-high, black leather, meant for wearing while riding Vespas through narrow Italian streets.

Completely inconvenient for San Diego weather, I barely had a chance to wear them.

I saw a chance to redeem these boots by bringing them to Europe, but I was wrong. They were bulky and heavy, a nuisance. The boots were donated to a very sweet and grateful Czech college student, who promised to love them well, and finally do those boots justice.

After my dramatic sacrifice, Jacob and I packed up all our stuff (still ridiculously heavy, but making some improvement) and dragged all of our luggage back over three types of public transportation on the way to the airport.

That’s when the fun started.

Arriving to the airport somewhat sooner than expected, Jacob and I had a while to wait before our airline even began checking in passengers for our 9.00 pm flight. We waited in an almost abandoned terminal for two hours. Finally, an hour and a half before our flight was scheduled to leave, the attendants appeared to check passengers in.

Once checked in, we hit the security line. Jacob sent his huge backpacker’s pack, meticulously stuffed to capitalize on space and weight capacities, through the x-ray machine. Security stopped Jacob, and made him take out and present every item in his backpack, which took about ten minutes. I will always treasure the memory of the Czech TSA inspecting Jacob’s underwear.

Once we were through security we went to wait at our gate. The problem was that our gate had not yet been assigned. 

Fifteen minutes after our flight was scheduled to depart, the gate had still not been posted. By this time all of the passengers were congregated in front of the screens, waiting from a word from someone – anyone. But nobody from our airline was anywhere to be found, so we just waited.

Now this would have been annoying under normal circumstances. Fortunately for Jacob and I, we were geared up to spend the night in the airport in Paris as it was. As long as we got to Paris in time to catch our train at 7.00 am, we knew we would be fine. Anything that happened in the meantime, we figured, was just entertainment to help pass the night away.

Thirty minutes after our departure time, we were informed that we would be given information in a half hour.

An hour later, we finally heard word. The plane was delayed two hours, and if we went to “mumble mumble mumble” we could collect vouchers for free refreshments.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who hadn’t heard where we were supposed to go. So when everyone stood up to go and collect their vouchers, one person began moving, and all 150 other people followed. Everyone following each other, we marched, luggage and all, halfway down the terminal and up a flight of stairs into a tiny mezzanine. Once we were packed like cattle onto the mezzanine, someone finally thought to ask, “…What are we doing here?”

Turns out, nobody knew.

So all 150 of us herded back to the gate, where the airport, apparently aware (and probably amused) by the spectacle they had just witnessed, informed us yet again of the location to collect the vouchers.

We finally received our voucher, made for the equivalent of $4.00 USD. At that late hour, only one restaurant was open in the terminal. We arrived at the restaurant, perused the menu, and realized that our voucher was enough to purchase one soda each. Funny thing is that I had seen the same soda in a vending machine around the corner for 1/3 of the restaurant price.

So maybe the restaurant charged for their impeccable service? The waiter arrived with my soda and a glass, half-heartedly poured two tablespoons of the soda into the glass, and walked away.

An hour later, and still in high spirits, we were finally on the plane to Paris.

Once we arrived in Paris we had a new challenge: find a place to sleep. After a couple of scouting trips, we found the perfect place – quiet, sheltered, private, and close to the bathrooms. We rested happily for 45 minutes before a trio of middle aged Frenchmen arrived, sat down 10 feet away from us and began conversing loudly. Twenty minutes later, and unable to stand the noise and laughter at such a late hour, we took all of our stuff and found a new place to sleep.

We didn’t really sleep. But the time passed, and by 5 a.m. the airport was coming to life and we were starving.  None of the cafes opened however, until 6 a.m. We decided to clean up and get ready to go while we waited for food. Jacob, in his sleep and food deprived delirium, put the key to his suitcase inside the suitcase, and then locked it.

An hour and some frantic train hunting later, we were finally on our proper train to the south of France where we would be picked up by my uncle and aunt.

Stories of France to come soon! (And don’t worry, my uncle sawed the lock off our suitcase in no time.)

Prague: Pt. 2

It has been a crazy week of transition. Adjusting to a new place, currency, and language – the sum of it all has left me little time to write a blog post. But now we are settled in France, and you will be caught up on everything shortly.

In the meantime: Back to Prague!

Our second full day in Prague, Jacob and I decided to cross the Vltava River that splits Prague in half. The city is well known for the many beautiful bridges that span the river – the most famous of which is Charles’ Bridge. 

The bridge is old, beautiful, and provides wonderful views of the city, but the real fun, as we had been informed, was playing “Spot the Pickpocket”.

Unfortunate though it is, Prague is home to many gangs of pickpockets who prey on unsuspecting tourists. (If you plan on visiting Prague don’t be deterred: simply using common sense should save you from any trouble.) In the meantime, you get to go pickpocket hunting. They are surprisingly easy to spot. Shady looking men, who are clearly not tourists, shuffle around crowded areas, gazing intently at groups of people gawking up at buildings or studying maps. Come on pickpockets – could you be any less subtle?

Anyways, avoiding the pickpockets, Jacob and I made our way over to the other side of the river to make a trek up Petrin Hill. Petrin Hill is a large public park that boasts an incredible view of the city from the top, along with an observatory, monastery, and (oddly enough) a miniature Eiffel Tower.

The view was spectacular. 

As was the beer brewed by the monks at the monastery on Petrin Hill. Probably some of the best we had in Prague – and that’s saying a lot. 

Aside from its bridges, Prague is also well known for beer. I can’t claim to be particularly devoted to beer, but my goodness. Prague was poised to change my mind. The beer was plentiful, cheap, and delicious. We drank a lot of beer in Prague (well – a lot of beer for us… which isn’t saying much).

Jacob and I headed to a nearby alehouse for lunch, and after perusing the menu, settled on a plate of Brawn. We did not know what it was, but we had been assured that it was meat, and it was included in the local specialties.

We received this. 

As it turns out, Brawn is another word for Head Cheese:  various bits of pork meat scraped from head, and bound together with gelatin. Flavorful, but not the most appealing texture.  Luckily, we had these to help wash it down. 

After lunch we went to check out the castle, and spent more time wandering through the streets. 

That evening we went to State Opera House to watch a performance of the ballet Giselle. We had picked up two tickets for an incredibly cheap $15 USD.  The ballet was incredible, the music was flawless, and the theater was breath taking. Apparently in Prague, a cheap ticket doesn’t mean you will be showing up for amateur hour.

The next day we left Prague for what turned out to be one of the most memorable connecting flights of our time so far. Stay tuned!

Prague: Pt. 1

Jacob and I landed in Prague on Monday afternoon after a grueling trek from Sweden that involved dragging our luggage across three different kinds of public transportation. Exhausted, and immensely frustrated that we packed so much crap in the first place (more on that in another post), we dropped off all our stuff and went to take our first bleary-eyed look at Prague.

We saw this.

We were amazed. And overwhelmed by the enormous crowds of tourists.  Unable to process much, we walked until we thought our feet would fall off, and decided to call it a night.

The next morning we started bright and early to catch a free guided tour of the city. Caveat: normally I despise tours. I hate being picked out as a tourist; I love being taken for a local. Being herded around a city with a large group of people gawking up at buildings is NOT my idea of fun. That being said, this tour was awesome.

Our tour guide was a young British expat who spoke and looked like Austin Powers. He was very knowledgeable, an engaging speaker, and had a penchant for acting out historical events a la Eddie Izzard.  Awesome.

Beyond that, it became abundantly clear how few details I knew about Prague. It is amazing how a pretty building can transform when you know the stories it has to tell. I have to swallow my pride and admit that guided tours can actually be a really great thing.

Prague is comprised of a mish-mash of architectural styles that makes for a very visually diverse city. It’s a pretty impressive thing to find Baroque, Art Deco, Communist Functionalism, and Cubism all in one glance. If you are not an architecture buff it means this: Lots of pretty things to look at.

Like this, the only Cubist lamp post in the world. 

In the evening, Jacob and I wandered back to the area of our apartment and into a local park. Hoping to just have a nice walk, we stumbled instead onto a popular local hangout spot. Groups of students studded the grass, all with their ½ liter cups of beer in hand, watching the sunset over an incredible view of the city.

Not wanting to be left out, we got our own beer (Czech beer: two thumbs way up), and joined them.

To Be Continued...