Lost In Limoges

From the sheep-dotted pastures of France's underpopulated Southwest, Limoges rises in all its grey glory. The city's claim to fame: fine porcelain. The half-timbered houses of the Medieval center are surrounded by strip malls and McDo. Land-hungry Brits descend with flailing pocketbooks (thanks, RyanAir). The weather is remarkably cool year-round. Sure, I live on rue de Nice, but this is NOT the Cote d'Azur. Welcome to Limoges, "the middle of nowhere"-- or as Pierre says "everywhere"-- France.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Lamb, It's What's For Dinner...


...in France. These are the babies at Damien's farm (that's Pierre's cousin)-- before the slaughter. Witnessing that is enough to turn you veg. Trust me.

French Football


I have a crush. France's incredible soccer player, Zidane, who is entirely swoon-worthy and heart-stoppingly goodlooking-- announced his retirement today. Why? After dazzling us with magic moves on the field, he's reached the God-fearing old age of 34. Let's hope he'll still be able to perform less strenuous professional activities, such as starring in enough TV commercials and magazine ads to satiate my appetite, so I can swoon some more. Though I used to gasp at Ronaldinho's skills when we watched Barcelona-Madrid on the stolen cable in Tacuba (a football-crazy town if there ever was one), my loyalty to Ronaldinho lies entirely in his status as world's best player (and of course there's that killer smile). Though the question begs to be asked: what exactly are you going to do in your retirement, Zidane the Man? Crossword puzzles?

Monday, April 24, 2006

Chocolate Boutiques


[The picture, as you guessed, was not in the chocolate store. But it's pretty darn cute for a window display]

The week after Easter, Pierre and I planned an adventurous outing to the chocolate shop. Since my "office" is all about me, myself, and I, I've been brainstorming little daily adventures to break up my work day. All I wanted was to feast my eyes on the beautiful displays of specialty chocolates. I didn't even need to buy anything, honest. But these shops are exquisite-- heaven-on-earth. A typical Easter display consists of perfectly detailed miniature statues of rabbits and chickens, rich dark chocolate encased in real egg shells, colorful baskets brimming with dainty and delicious treasures. Now, this is the life. (Just when I was mourning the noticeable lack of Cadbury's cream eggs at the supermarket.)

Window-shopping is pleasant enough-- some windows are stacked with whole scenes of marzipan animals. But the best shop, and the only one I will now patronize in Limoges, is where the adorable owner stuffed endless samples of chocolate into my hands: truffles, metallic eggs, white, dark, milk. And she wouldn't stop! I never thought I could get full of the stuff, but I was about to gag. (At some of the other chocolateries, the shop-keepers were stiff-lipped, grumpy, and made it clear that they were ready to close for the evening. Fat chance they were getting my business.) So of course, I ended up buying EUR 15 or so of different chocolates from the generous and smiling shopkeeper, all at a superb after-Easter discount. This could possibly be the best thing about France. The delight in taste, the love of food, taking such pleasure in it-- celebrated in these little boutiques that are such pleasant and beautiful interior spaces in their own right.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Photos from the Medieval Center of Limoges



I Love France!


Today we took the new Renault Megane Coupe on a tour around the region. In one word: gorgeous. Sun-baked fields of yellow wildflowers, herds of big, brown Limousine cattle, medieval villages clinging to the hillsides. We were totally snap-happy with the camera. Check out the pix. In Tulle, the accordion capital of France where we bought our picnic baguette, a river runs through the town and all the graceful stone bridges have flower boxes.



The medieval town of Gimel-les-Cascades (our destination) is impossibly cute. Winding alleyways, blooming cherry trees, the ancient ruins of a castle, turquoise wooden shutters, old stone houses built into the hill above waterfalls.


The inside of the church took my breath away: remnants of colorful 12th century paintings etched into the walls. And equally as old religious artifacts. Small groups of picnickers-- families, couples, tourists-- have already discovered the town in its Spring bloom. I can't even imagine what summer will bring. The streets just aren't wide enough for any more cars! For our picnic of bread, cheese, and delicious deli delights from our friend the butcher, we found a tinier town with an almost window-less Gothic church where we sat outside and discussed Catholicism in the Middle Ages. (The imposing dark vault of a church launched the conversation.) The sun was beating down and we sat in the grass and looked at the weathered gargoyles. This part of France (the Correze, not the Haute-Vienne where Limoges is located) is truly the middle of nowhere. We counted more cattle than people. And the winter must be so damn cold. I asked Pierre where on earth these folks bought their grocery supplies. He imagined whole hams stocked in their freezers.

Boucherie-Charcuterie




The truck pulled up in front of the house in La Chapelle Saint Laurent (Pierre's parents) and honked. It was pretty small, compared to our big American trucks, with a pig painted on the side, and Viandes painted in red letters on the front. We chatted with the amiable driver as he hopped out of the front seat, walked around to the side, raised the siding, and quickly transformed this truck into a butcher shop! A charcuterie on wheels! The display of meat was mouth-watering. Posters of pigs were plastered on the walls, and the butcher even had one of those deli meat-slicers ready to cut the ham and saucisson. His specialty is boudin, or blood sausage, which I'm not too fond of, but the rest of it is pretty awesome.



(Sadly, Pierre told me that this kind of old-school charcuterie is becoming obsolete. With new government regulations, the old timers are being phased out...)

Protests and the French Revolution

I've always thought of France as all about revolution, bold ideologies, great political movements and philosophies in history. After all, the United States is founded upon the French Enlightenment ideals. Jefferson's Declaration of Independence screams French influence. Thanks to La Fayette, our revolution became a reality and we kicked some imperial British butt. And I've always thought a little revolution is a good thing (take the French student protests in 1968).

But the recent mayhem in the streets was entirely disappointing to me, as I muse on the lofty French ideals of old. Though I don't know all the details of Chirac's piece of labor legislation, it seemed like a desperate (and desperately needed) attempt to fix the dire unemployment situation, and from a business perspective: what businessman in their right mind would employ an individual without the condition that if the employee didn't do their job properly, or embezzled, or slept under their desk, or called long-distance all over the world, they could be fired? To me, the recent student protesters were hardly revolutionary. They were organizing in order to protect the status quo. To protect the bureaucracy. To keep things from changing. And things in France NEED to change; the economy is in big trouble. Chirac is LAME for backing down.

The French and their Animals



I take a break from writing everyday at noon and go for a jog. On my first exploratory run-- checking out the town's layout-- I found myself in a gorgeous park with a pond and sloping green lawns. (Later in the week I would discover that the retired men congregate here at 3 pm, cigars in hand, for competitive games of boule.) I started to run around the lake, pleased at the tranquility of the place with weeping willows and flocks of ducks, and then the track turned to mud and I smelled something rancid. Before I stumbled into what appeared to be a petting zoo, the thick, musty odor announced the beasts. Long-haired billy goats with curling horns, thick-coated black sheep, all sorts of strange species of animals. Under the watchful eyes of parents, kids grabbed onto the fenceposts and pointed at the cute little babies. And as I kept jogging, I looked ahead and noticed a buzzard pecking at some bloodied carrion, and as I ran closer, I saw the unmistakable knifed hindquarters of a rabbit. (Some hunter's refuse.)

The whole episode struck me as representative of the strange relationship between French and beasts-- how the French show the same remarkable fondness for cooing over barnyard animals in these wooden pens (sometimes at weekend produce markets) as they do for slaughtering them.

Take, for example, Pierre's adorable father. He keeps as pets all sorts of flocks of chickens, ducks, and geese, and reveals enormous pleasure in constructing hen houses, gathering eggs, analyzing the birds' behavior (like Harry and Mom with "Braveheart"). The goose is now sitting on a nest of 14 eggs, and Pierre's father quietly explained how her mate, Coco, is sad and dejected that she stays indoors all the time. Coco will stand watch when she ventures outside "to take a bath" and ruffle her feathers. Then the shocker. Over Easter, I watched Pierre's father eat with relish (with the perfect manners and etiquette of a French gentleman) a plate of tender goose breast-- Coco's ill-fated son.

I guess it's pretty obvious that Americans are very separated from the source of their food. We see food in its shiny Supermarket packaging and have a total disconnect about its source. But eating pets?! Nope, we could never do that.

How France is like El Salvador

Internet line hooked up in the house? Could be a Tuesday, or a Wednesday, or maybe Thursday! These things you just can't pinpoint or predict with precision! Thus, a few weeks ago, I loitered outside the internet cafe to await the 2 pm arrival of my one friend in Limoges-- the friendly Algerian who speaks three English phrases and buys me little cups of espresso as I work-- but the clock ticks by, and it's 2:45 before he unlocks the door. See, the hours of 12-2 are sacred in France, the lunch-siesta an immovable rite in each day. And sometimes that lunch lingers a little longer, and business can just well-- wait.

Which reminds me of sitting outside the Cybercafe in Tacuba, sometimes at 11 am, waiting for the cute brothers who managed the place to wake up and unlock the door. If you asked Edgar what were the business hours, he would respond that they opened at 8:30 am, but his brother was a little more vague.

However, I dare say my Salvadoran friends were a bit more industrious in some ways-- with these same shops. Would any rational, capitalist-thinking being really close the doors to their store from 12-2 on a Saturday, a prime shopping day for folks who are trapped behind their desks all week in bureaucratic hell? (Considering that the Lord's Day is totally off limits and shoppers are limited to a few open boulangeries.) When Pierre and I took a weekend for the couch-hunt, we knew we only had a good five hours to scout the colors and test pillow firmness. At 12 exactly, as the doors to a large furniture store were closed in our faces, we were left with nowhere to go, but McDo. And at 1:55 pm, we found ourselves in the parking lot with about six other waiting shoppers. They're fools, if you ask me-- these shop-owners. Somebody should open up a 24/7 store and make a killing on their sales to folks who just want to BUY something, anything, between the hours of 12-2.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Welcome to Limoges



We arrived in the rain. Speeding along the highway, I glanced up from my Lonely Planet to see the huge, unmistable shape of twin nuclear reactors, the spewed column of steam visible for miles. We were about halfway to Limoges from Poitiers, and the night before I had finished the National Geographic article on Chernobyl's aftermath. Good God, I thought, I am NOT living anywhere near these babies! No way! Where else are they lurking in the rolling green countryside? After all, most of France's energy is nuclear (which is a lot cleaner a fuel than coal or oil) but still! An hour later, through the rain-streaked windshield, I caught my first glimpse of the city. A criss-cross of highways (ala DC beltway), mammoth parking lots outside Conforama (the French equivalent of Target), and some strip malls and porcelain warehouses. Sweet.

We traipsed around in the rain-- after the mandatory morning espresso and crossaint-- and visited about ten rental agencies. Followed by the house hunt. You can imagine my barely concealed contemptuous facial expression at this point (I hardly have a poker face). I'm looking for the cute cafes, boutiques and bars and they are just hiding, frankly. My salad lunch, flavored by clouds of cigarette smoke, is seriously lacking.

But then we toured a little house on rue de Nice. Three levels, lots of windows, a garden. A whole bunch of light-filled space with a lot of character (and plenty of holes in the walls). Followed by the discovery of the most comfortable little hotel, its ancient corridors and breakfast room decorated with antique gramophones. And a hearty Italian dinner where the chatty maitre d' offered us plenty of gratis after-dinner drinks as a big welcome to the neighborhood. And a meander through winding, narrow alleyways, lined with Medieval houses and a majestic cathedral, in the old city center.

The following morning the sun was shining and Limoges had shed her gloomy gray layers. Pierre raced around town full of energy and optimism: to the rental office at 9 am sharp to deposit a check, to the bus station to get maps, to the city hall to announce his arrival as new resident and load up on maps and information. Even to the library to check their English language section. I couldn't help but smile.