I Am A Luddite

Luddite.

Noun.

Definition: Any opponent of industrial change or innovation.

As many of you know, I am not a lover of technology. I don't understand how computers, cell phones, digital cameras, or iPads work. Heck, the telephone remains a mystery. It is all black magic to me. I usually get so frustrated by it I want to scream! Or cry as I have been known to do on occasion when I am writing report cards and do something silly and erase 12 hours of hard work.

Anyway, let me digress.

When we went to New York City in March, Joe bought me a second-hand netbook from a colleague of his. It was perfect for me. I could write blog posts, I could download photos, but more importantly I could use it. It was very simple. Just like me.

Two days before we were leaving for France, Joe hauled out the netbook to make sure it was working. And of course it wasn't. The keyboard was broken. There was no time to have it repaired. Joe, being the sweet husband that he is, came home the next night and surprised me with an iPad 2.

I was not familiar with the technology that is iPad. For those of you who are, you know how amazing these machines are. When Joe was showing me how it worked, my mouth hung open. Truly, the iPad operates by magic. Pure and utter magic.

I have discovered that iPads are fantastic for consuming information. E-mail, facebook, google, reading books on Kindle, using the millions of applications that are available. But we've discovered that it ain't so great for producing information. Case in point: my blog.

It has been a struggle to get everything up and running. Donwloading and attaching photos has been a nightmare. Joe has been working tirelessly on finding ways to make blogging easier for me. It hasn't been easy, that's for sure. And he knows what he's doing!

I am not thrilled with the way the blog is looking. I can't crop or edit the photos to my liking; the entire photo is not within the frame; the vertical photos are too big; the horizontal photos aren't big enough; I have to attach all the photos at the end of the text; waaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaa.

This has been one heckuva steep learning curve.

So that, my friends, is that.

I am an affirmed Luddite.

Always have been, always will be.

The Sardinade

We saw some posters in the village advertising a 'Sardinade' on Saturday night. We love the big, outdoor, communal meals the French put on, so we called and made reservations.

We arrived at the square to see it filled with tables, chairs, barbecues, and people. Big jugs of home-made wine sat under a tree waiting to be poured into plastic tumblers.

We found ourselves a spot at one of the long tables and sat down. We watched a little boy shoot flying ants with his pop gun. A salsa band was setting up to provide the evening's entertainment. The air was warm. The wine was flowing. Plates of chips, olives and corn nuts were being passed from table to table.

The star dinner attraction was a big tinfoil packet stuffed full of barbecued sardines. Heads, guts, bones and all. I could tell by the look on Joe's face he wasn't totally enjoying it. You should have seen his expression when one of the women came around and plunked more sardines on his plate!

After dessert, a group of women got up to dance the samba together. The booty shaking was going on.

The friendly French people sitting beside us struck up a conversation, but soon gave up when it became apparent that we were not understanding a single word they said.

We left at midnight. Full of fish and home-made wine.

I love this country.

Nothing Is Easy

Not that Joe and I are world-wide travelers by any stretch of the imagination, but one would think that this being our 5th trip to France we would know what we're doing by now. One would be wrong.

Nothing is easy. I have come to embrace that phrase.

After a 12 hour flight, we landed in Paris at 8:30am. We thought we'd quickly grab our rental car and head south to the house we'd rented in the Lot Valley. It's a 6 hour drive to Martignac, so we figured we'd be pulling into our driveway by 3:00pm. 4:00pm at the latest. Easily. Again....WRONG!

It took us well over over an hour just to find the 'Europcar' rental desk. We had to walk from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1 dragging our luggage (and our butts) behind us. Once we were in Terminal 1 it took us forever to find the desk. We were up elevators, down elevators, along hallways, consulting information posters (which were no help at all) until one man took pity on us and said "Follow me. I will lead you there." Merci Monsieur!

There were about five other families in front of us at Europcar. No problem. We can wait. I leaned against a wall to help prop me up. Once Joe got to the front of the line I thought we'd be outta there in no time. WRONG! They didn't have the type of car we pre-booked and paid for. The girl behind the counter kept trying to give us a lesser car. A smaller car. With each offer Joe said "No. Either you give us a car that is equal to what we ordered, or you give us an upgrade.". They went a few rounds, but in the end she upgraded us to a beautiful 2011 Renault Laguna.

Except we would have to wait an hour for it to be delivered to the airport. By this time I had been up for 21 hours and was having trouble seeing straight. We went and had a bite to eat while we waited for our vehicle to be ready.

At the appropriate time, we returned to the rental desk. The agent handed us the key and said, "Your car is waiting for you in the red parking garage in stall number 125." "Okay! Now we're getting somewhere!" I erroneously thought.

It took us another 30 minutes to find the red parking lot! We found blue, we found green, and finally we found red.

We were thrilled when we saw our car. It was nice and fancy.

We tried to throw our luggage into the trunk, but we could not for the life of us figure out how to open it. Was there a button inside the car? Nope! Did it open by using the key fob? Nope! Joe was getting frustrated by this point and just wanted to throw our gear on the backseat and be done with it. But I pointed out that we would still have the problem of opening the trunk.

We saw a man wearing a reflective vest and asked him for help. He walked to the rear of the car, pushed the Renault symbol on the trunk and voila! The trunk opened. Merci Monsieur!

Okay. Now can we get on our way? No. Because Joe couldn't figure out how to set up the blasted GPS. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Can you please help us again?" Monsieur came to our rescue a second time, but with a 'these-tourists-are-idiots' look on his face.

Joe happily jumped into the driver's seat and said, "Come on! Let's go!"

Not so fast Bucko. Monsieur thought we were from Germany and set the GPS to German! Do you think we could figure out how to change the language to English? OF COURSE WE COULDN'T!!

Back came Monsieur with gritted teeth and a 'I-am-going-to-kill-these-people' gleam in his eyes.

We finally drove out of the airport after being there over 4 hours. So much for arriving in Martignac by mid-afternoon.

So much for getting out of Paris! Good grief! The gridlock on the highway surrounding the city was nothing short of mind-boggling. It took us 2 hours to inch 30 kilometres!!!!!

As soon as we got going, our GPS asked us if we wanted to avoid the toll roads. Joe answered yes, because he thought the GPS asked us if we wanted to drive the toll roads. The next hour found us crawling down single track lanes. Joe groaned when he realized his mistake. We quickly plugged in the nearest toll highway on the GPS. And the A10 auto-route came into view. We both heaved a sigh of relief.

We had to stop several times to eat and sleep.

Fourteen long hours after we landed at the Charles de Gaulle airport, we arrived at our beautiful 15th century house at 10:30pm. We'd been in the air and on the road for close to 32 hours. We celebrated our arrival with a quick drink before collapsing into bed.

Like I said. Nothing is easy.

*We are experiencing technical difficulties loading photos on to my new iPad and then to my blog. Hopefully, Joe will have this problem rectified shortly. Until then, my words will
have to suffice.

Good-Bye France!

A French postcard.

Good-bye France. Thank you for having us. We absolutely loved the month we spent with you.

Thank you for the wine, the food, the friendly locals, the markets, the beautiful countryside, the bustling cities, the art, and the culture.

We will be back.

We're off to Italy in the morning!

Pont St. Julien

Pont St. Julien

Saint Julien's bridge is the only surviving bridge on what was the main road from northern Italy to Provence. It was built 2,000 years ago, from 27 B.C. to A.D. 14.

Mortar had not been invented yet, so the stones were carefully set into place.

Amazingly, St. Julien's bridge still survives today. It has outlived Roman marches, hundreds of floods, and decades of car traffic. This bridge was used until just recently. In 2005, a new bridge was built to re-route traffic from this beautiful structure.

I love stumbling onto stuff like this while going on country drives.

Fort de Buoux

The ruins high up in the hills.

The 13th century church with art students in the courtyard. Services were held in this church until the late 1800s.

Paige at the top of a very long staircase cut into the side of the mountain.

Miss Molly in the castle doorway.

Molly has a penchant for ruined castles, fortresses, and strongholds. Especially if they are precariously perched on the top of a high hill.

We found ourselves in such a situation this morning as we were driving around the Luberon visiting the little villages that are nestled in its hills and valleys.

This rocky outcrop has been inhabited since prehistoric times.

In the Middle Ages it was home to hundreds of residents and a powerful castle. Fort de Buoux (pronounced Boox) was destroyed in the 1500s and again in the 1600s.

It has remained a ruin ever since. Much to Molly's glee.

Safety Last #2

A hole in the wall shares a water downspout and an extension cord.

The last time I checked water and electricity didn't mix so well. Hmmmm.....

Yellow And Blue Number Three

Even the weeds have the sense to be in the provencal colours of yellow and blue.

Tunisian Lunch

La Goulette.

Couscous Tunisian style.

On Thursday we made a return trip into Marseille. The girls wanted to shop more, and Joe and I wanted to wander around that interesting city.

After two hours, we met back up and went for lunch. We were intrigued by the food people were eating at a Tunisian restaurant as we looked for a place to eat. We sat down and ordered. Out came heaping pottery bowls filled to the rim with couscous, vegetables, and meat. Lots of meat. It was delicious and we ate every mouthful.

I don't even think we had dinner that night.

Avignon

The Pont d'Avingnon of nursery rhyme fame.

Inside the Pope's Palace.

The Pope's Palace.

A square in Avignon.

On Wednesday we drove into Avignon for the day. We toured the Popes' Palace, ventured out onto the famous bridge, strolled through a park, ate a kebob on the street, and went in search of an English language book store.

Learned some history, got sore feet, were hot in the sun.

I could do this every day of my life.

Cassis

Driving into Cassis.

The pretty harbour of Cassis.

Molly rocking the 'Cote d'Azur' look.

The beach.

Wandering the beach boardwalk looking for a place to have a drink.

We were feeling pretty tired on Tuesday, so we decided it was time to relax. We drove to the pretty beach resort town of Cassis. We laid on the pebbly beach, we swam in the Mediterranean. Over and over again. All afternoon.

Cassis has been called "a poor man's St. Tropez". Pretty much sums it up for me.

Marseille

Marseille and the Mediterranean.

The port of Marseille. We hiked up the hill to the basilica.

The statue of Mary and Jesus on top of Notre-Dame de la Garde. To give you an idea of how big the statue is, Jesus' wrist is 42 inches around.

Inside the colourful basilica.

The Arab markets.

The busy side-streets of Marseille.

On Monday we drove into Marseille. This city was described to us as "an untouristy, semi-seedy-but-vibrant port city with 2,600 years of history." Sounds good to me!

I learned that Marseille is France's oldest city (600 B.C.) and is its second largest.

Marseille seems a world apart from France's other leading cities such as Paris and Lyon.

The influence of immigrants is huge here. More than a quarter of Marseille's population comes from countries in North Africa. We heard more Arabic spoken than French.

Our first order of business was to get some exercise, so we hiked up the long, steep hill to Notre-Dame de la Garde. This basilica is Marseille's landmark sight and looks out over the Mediterranean. Holy Hannah! Did we ever sweat getting ourselves up that road! But the views from up there were gorgeous and it was well worth the effort.

Molly and Paige wanted to shop for clothes (what else?) so as soon as we got got back down to the city we split up. The girls headed for Galeries Lafayette, and Joe and I to the Arab market. Joe quickly immersed himself in buying foods from Moroccan, Algerian and Tunisian sellers. We bought some delicious Egyptian wraps full of apples and ground round; and chicken and scrambled egg. We grabbed some Tunisian sweets and a couple bottles of fresh pressed juice.

When we met back up the girls, we headed for the port for a picnic. We just plunked ourselves down on wharf and devoured our North African lunch.

This is why I love travelling.....

Encore Les Bleus et Les Jaunes

Blue hydrangeas. In France they are called 'Hortensia'.

Yellow roses beside blue shutters in Ansouis.

An apartment building in Marseilles.

More provencal blues and yellows.....

Crisps

Grilled Steak and Cheeseburger flavours! THE BEST CHIPS EVER!!!!!

Rose

"No sooner made than drunk. No sooner drunk than pissed away."

A quote from some anonymous scornful wine critic.

I don't care what he says. I love rose wines.

And always will.

Cigales

Cicadas are Provence's official insect. They are the sound of summer around these parts. It's somewhere between a chirp and a squeak. I think it sounds like very loud, buzzing, live electrical wires.

You can even buy recordings of their sounds for your own garden. There's an Australian cicada whose sounds have been measured at 158 decibels. The same noise level as a grenade going off.

The Provencal cicada is an audible thermometer. It starts chirping when the temperatures rise to 72 F. And not before.

The female lays between 300 and 400 eggs which spend anywhere from three to six years underground. When they hatch, the adults only live for a few weeks. Doesn't seem quite fair, does it?

I have come to really enjoy these insects' noises.

Ansouis

The village of Ansouis as seen from the vineyards.

Our house on rue Basse.

The kitchen.

The living room.

The fireplace with Molly reading on the couch.

Our bedroom.

The little terrace off of our bedroom.

Paige's bedroom.

Molly's bedroom.

We have landed at our 5th house. It is in the Luberon region of Provence.

It is beautiful. It is gorgeous.

The village is pretty.

There are lots of things to do and see in the surrounding area.

I am SO looking forward to this week in Ansouis.

Arles

Les Baux

Looking out from the Roman aqueduct ruins in Fontvieille.

Hotel Calendal.

Climbing the aqueduct ruins.

Cathedrale D'Images.

Pont du Gard.

Bull races in Arles.

After leaving Balmont Thursday morning, we headed due south on the A20 to the ancient Roman city of Arles. We have made very good use of our two days here.

Van Gogh, Roman aqueduct ruins, Les Baux, Cathedrale D'Images, Pont du Gard, St. Remy-de-Provence, and bull races. Not to mention a couple of fine dinners out.

We are packing up shortly and driving to our 5th house in Ansouis.

Thank you Hotel Calendal and Arles. We had a marvellous time.