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.

Monday, July 31, 2006

I Have (My First) Friends in Limoges!!!

They are passionate about classic American cinema. They love to travel to exotic spots like Kerala, India and the Algerian desert. They served my favorite kind of meal: salad with parmesan and toasted pine nuts, and salmon with chick peas. And... they read Le Monde Diplomatique. (What's not to love?) Vincent and Marielle invited us for dinner on Saturday night (thank God, I am getting seriously stir-crazy bonding with my laptop all day) and I think I'm in love.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Fallen Heroes: Floyd Landis Breaks My Heart



Just when I was on top of the world, feeling all smug and self-satisfied, as an American living in France. The 8th straight American victory in the Tour de France was cause for great celebration. Meanwhile, Pierre and all the other Frenchies I know were poised on their office chairs, reading L'Equipe editorials citing that Landis' stellar come-back performance in the Pyrenees could only be possible with performance-enhancing drugs. Reporters were already looking for ways to discount his awesome victory. And then, lo and behold, the announcement was made, the fingers pointed, and Landis seems to stand guilty as charged. I am so disappointed. The dude was a hero in my book, overcoming the odds, riding with an injured hip, proving himself as one of the world's greatest athletes (and from a Mennonite community in Pennsylvania, no less).

I like to have heroes. And these days, they are all falling short of my expectations. First, the always-poised Zidane loses his mind (and the game for the French) in the World Cup final. A serious fall from grace. Now Landis seems to be nothing more than a cheater. And the Tour de France, one big farce of steroid users.

(The French are all blaming the Americans. "The first winner only has one testicle. The second, only one hip. What's next? An American rider who can win the Tour with only one leg?")

Photo Via Outside Magazine

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Oradour-sur-Glane


Time stands still at Oradour-sur-Glane, the site of a gruesome SS massacre during the Second World War. On June 10, 1944, a few days after the invasion of Normandy, German SS units rolled into this small Limousin town and ordered the entire population into the center, with the pretense of checking identity cards. Men were ordered into barns, the women and children into the church, where they were all gunned down, and then the buildings burned to the ground. Even to this day, the brutality and inhumanity of this massacre are inexplicable and horrifying.


As we walked through the museum-- which documents wartime France, the Resistance, the occupations and daily lives of the very ordinary population of Oradour, and the testimonies of the few survivors-- I kept remembering the words of a friend who accompanied me to the notorious Suol Teng prison in Cambodia. "You can't get your head around this." And this shocking horror occurred only 60 years ago.


The entire village has been left intact since the Germans tried to annihilate the evidence of the massacre. Buildings are gutted and crumbling, inside of which you can see the iron and metal of sewing machines, chairs at a cafe, the rusting bodies of 1930's cars... The tram tracks still wind through town, and the overhead wires strung between the empty carcasses of buildings. A visit to this martyred village, just 30 minutes from Limoges, is an important and moving experience.

The Music Festival at Saint Chartier



I was surrounded by French hippies. Bared breasts beneath accordeon straps, dreadlocks dangling, and a sea of tents stretching as far as the eye could see across a field. This could be Woodstock, except that the musical focus is entirely different. Here at Saint Chartier, a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere (truly), ancient musical traditions are celebrated and brought to life. Music is everywhere. Violins, accordions, guitars, mandolins, bagpipes. It's awesome.



On the main stage, major artists performed in the evening (July 13-16), including a French group from Canada called Vent du Nord, which rocked my world with the tap-dancing and fiddle. A lot of the music reminds me of blue grass, lively cajun, gypsy songs, or even some traditional tunes from the Middle Ages.

Just wandering through the streets of the town, checking out the displays of instruments designed by craftsmen who have come from all over Europe, is worth the trip. We stopped to have an aperitif-- local wine flavored with peche-- and the table next to us was jamming some wonderful Django tunes. Everywhere you turn, there are musicians assembled, playing all sorts of fantastic music, from funky bagpipes to tzigane. Check out this music clip on Videovista.

I was impressed by the facilities at the campground (they even had showers set up, for public use.) But the heat was sweltering, so we slept outside next to the car, which we angled perfectly to block the heat when the sun rose in the morning. At 4 am, we watched magnificent fireworks explode their colors overhead.

Living in Limoges



Recently, I was told by a lovely group of (Parisian) friends that I was lucky to move to Limoges before I knew the reputation of the city, because-- brace yourself for this one, dear reader-- Limoges is the asshole of France. I was aghast, and leapt to the defense of my hard-working adopted town. I'm glad I arrived here with a totally blank slate-- to assess the Medieval city center (its outskirts fringed by grey porcelain factories, parking lots, and high rises of subsidized housing) on my own.

So what if the movie theater has a lousy selection of films, and the Galeria Lafayette resembles a picked-over Marshall's (as opposed to its counterpart in Paris)? Here's my argument as to why Limoges is a grand place to live:
1. Limoges is dirt cheap. A delicious multi-course dinner is mere centimes compared to the capital's mediocre cuisine (even Leclerc and Champion are cheaper here)
2. Limoges is just minutes from some of the most charming Medieval villages in France, and the rural countryside (as I've bubbled about before) isn't too shabby.
3. Limoges is conveniently located just three hours south of Paris by train, and just a few hours from Spain.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Pretty-People-Watching in Lyon



Arguably, there are more pretty-people in Lyon (check out the babe posing in the picture!) than in Paris. (Definitely more so than our Limoges-- where the demographics, dictated by occupations, etc, are of course, very different.) Inside the Musee des Beaux-Arts, there is a magical little garden, full of statues and fountains, where one can picnic in peace for free, and people-watch to your heart's content.

And across the street in front of the huge Hotel de Ville, there is an even better people-watching venue. In the middle of the place des Terreaux is a landmark statue, forged by the same sculptor who created the Statue of Liberty-- a massive chariot pulled by horses, representing four rivers charging towards the ocean. The effect at night is incredible, as steam seems to billow from the nostrils of the horse, saliva frothing from the lips. The rest of the square is marked by countless small fountains, erupting from the pavement, where couples and kids alike delight in jumping and walking.

I spent hours working at a cafe there, watching pretty people partake in noon salads and evening kirs.

Lyon and Ancient Rome



Towering above Old Lyon is Fourviere hill, where the Romans built the military city of Lugdunum in 43 BC. Over two millennia ago, all roads led to Lyon (in the Gaul territories, anyway). As the capital, Lyon was a major intersection of the North-South and East-West highways. Maps in the Musee de la Civilisation Gallo-Romaine indicate that a lot of the modern roads (the one we took east from Limoges, for example) seem to follow the same path as the ancient Roman roads.

I walked up the incredibly-steep footpath from Old Lyon, panting the whole way. The Romans sure did have a knack for choosing massive hills as building sites. The views from the top, at the 19th century Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere, are stupendous. The basilica is oddly embellished, sort of gaudy, and I didn't bother going inside. Though the TV transmitter next door is quite a sight-- like a mini-Eiffel Tower.



Nearby, the ancient Roman amphitheater (first built in 15 BC) is spread out across the hillside, with stunning views of Lyon below. Back in the day, it could seat 10,000 people, and it is still used today for summer concerts (see the photo with the stage and speakers set up).

The Museum is one of the best I've ever seen on ancient Roman civilization. It is built underground, deep within the hillside, set into its natural setting. So as you descend the ramps-- checking out the extensive exhibits on Roman politics, life, culture, religion, and art-- you catch glimpses of the amphitheather out the windows.


The museum houses a lot of the intricate, colorful mosaics, that I remember from photographs on the cover of Latin textbooks. One is set into the actual floor of the museum-- so precious that I didn't want to step on it. A lot of the artifacts were found pretty recently around Lyon, within building foundations, reused in the Medieval churches and bridges. One of the best displays is a bronze slate with an inscription of a speech by Emperor Claudius (who happened to be born in Lyon). The language he used is stilted and difficult; notably, when Tacitus wrote his history, he chose to rewrite the speech, taking away a lot of that stiff and awful Latin.


Walking through the museum, lingering for hours, I was struck by the advanced level of this civilization: from the political structure to the cooking utensils. (Some of the artifacts-- strainers, cooking things-- look like they could be found today in the remote and isolated parts of the rural Limousin. No joke.)

[Last photo is from the top of a neighboring hill, looking back at the basilica and "Eiffel Tower."]

Vieux Lyon



The historic center of Lyon-- full of tiny cobble-stoned alleyways, outdoor cafes and bouchons (the local eateries), and Medieval houses-- is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Lyon itself sits at the convergence of two rivers, the Saone and Rhone, its city center, called the Presqu'ile, rising from the peninsula between the rivers. Vieux Lyon is situated on the western bank of the Saone River, a short walk over one of the many modern pedestrian bridges. (Only two of the 28 old bridges remain, after the occupying Germans blew them up when they retreated in 1944.)




In France, no need to carry a map because the tourism infrastructure is so extensive. Just follow the signs to Rue du Boeuf, dominated by ancient, colorful houses with beautiful wooden doors, and Rue Juiverie, the street where most of Lyon's Jewish community lived in the Middle Ages. Along the window ledges on this street, gargoyles and other stone creatures stare down at passers-by.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Destinations: Lyon, France




Smack in the middle of the Cotes du Rhone wine-growing region, at the crossroads to central Europe, the gastronomic capital of France (so much piggy at those traditional restaurants!), is an artistic and cultural center, and most importantly... oozes some serious ancient Roman history. What's not to love?!?!? (Especially since I'm a sucker for all things Roman/Latin-- despite our bad moods towards Materazzi and that lousy Italian football team-- and Lyon was the capital of the Roman territories of Gaul, after its founding as Lugdunum in 43 BC.) Of course I had to tag along with Pierre on a recent business trip.

[Photos: the Basilique Notre Dame lit up at night; graffiti; impressive wall murals-- part of the seven-storey Fresque des Lyonnais)

I Went To Starbucks In Paris



I confess.... in the land of the charming (almost archetypal) cafes, with their small, perfect espressos accompanied by dainty cookies or simple chocolates, I sought out the Starbucks. I was tired of being on my feet, looking for the appropriate cafe to munch on a crossaint, sip a big milky coffee, and write for hours without being hassled. Pierre reminded me about the Starbucks outlet near the George Pompidou Centre. Just a hop from the Metro and voila! I sighed with relief. Thank God for Starbucks and its big, impersonal space, clean bathrooms, and enormous venti lattes with vanilla and milk and all that good stuff that the French scorn. Who cares about the globalization of American culture when Starbucks fills a niche as it does in Paris? The chain has proved so successful in Paris-- my first visit, to the Opera location, unearthed a surprising discovery of fashionable Parisians who think Starbucks is cool)-- that there are now 17 outlets in the city. (And Starbucks isn't exactly McDo. With its mission of environmentalism and fair trade, the chain is actually helping educate people about important issues. Though it's yet to be seen if the small coffee growers in Central America and other parts of the developing world actually benefit from Starbucks' programs. Lastly, another economic argument in favor of the big chain (first introduced years ago by The New Yorker): Starbucks is not taking away business from Mom and Pop stores, because Starbucks can be described as a tastemaker, thus helping inspire a taste and desire within average people-- in this case, the small luxury of a vanilla latte every morning-- that they didn't crave or want prior to the existence of Starbucks. Therefore, the argument goes, the small cafes also benefit from Starbucks, because folks will not always patronize Starbucks in their search for their morning coffee fix...)

Fascinating further reading:
SuperFrenchie, "Le Starbucks"

Image via Wikipedia


Sunday, July 09, 2006

Monet's Waterlilies at the Musee de l'Orangerie


The line was long, snaking its way around the building. A simple reservation, a quick phone call ahead, and you skip the line entirely. I hadn't thought of that. But there are worse things than standing in the sunshine in the Jardin des Tuileries. I eavesdropped on the conversation between two well-dressed American gents ahead of me in line, museum buffs and Francophiles who described the raucous scene on the Champs Elysees after the French win against Portugal the night before. Apparently the fireworks weren't getting far enough off the ground. They described seeing faces covered in blood. Pure chaos.

With that kind of story-telling, the wait flew by. The Musee de l'Orangerie has only recently re-opened, after an impressive six-year renovation, and a $36 million investment. This is where folks flock to see Monet's series of waterlilies-- perhaps the most monumental works of his lifetime. Americans seem especially mesmerized by Monet and the blockbuster exhibits that have exhibited his work around the country. But truly-- these huge paintings of waterlilies are exceptional. The artist spent 30 years captivated by the light on the waterlily pond at his home in Giverny, and managed to capture its mysterious quality, and the changing seasons, in his large Abstract canvases that wrap around the walls of the museum. These eight paintings are enormous: over six feet high and one is over 50 feet long. The artist donated them to France, and they were hung at l'Orangerie in 1927, a year after his death. In the 1960's, the government attempted a renovation of the museum that holds the paintings, which failed miserably, and so for years, the nymphéas (as they are called) sat forgotten and neglected.

No longer. The museum re-opened in mid-May, and presents the paintings as Monet initially intended them to be viewed. Natural light floods through the ceiling; the white walls curve and bend to accommodate the canvases. The architecture is as stunning as the paintings. The water lilies are housed on the ground floor, while the downstairs showcases the Jean Walter and Paul Guillaume collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist works, including a corridor of Renoir, Matisse, Derain, and Modigliani. (Derain's colorful canvases-- full of distorted angles and interesting scenes of French life-- are awesome.)


Saturday, July 08, 2006

The (Disastrous/Spectacular) Musée du Quai Branly Opens in Paris



There's a new museum in Paris. Actually, it's more like an architectural landmark, placed strategically on the Seine beneath the Eiffel Tower. It took eleven years, and EUR 232 million, but at the June 20 inauguration of the new Musée du Quai Branly, the world's gaze settled on what is hoped to be the hottest new thing in Paris. After all, the Musée du Quai Branly represents the crowning cultural achievement of Chirac's long reign; he has sought to create a space honoring, um, "the world's forgotten civilizations." (And the museum will soon be named for him. Like his predecessors, Chirac wants to achieve political triumph through a grand and costly Parisian landmark.)

The museum houses the 270,000 items from the African, Oceanic and Asian artworks from the Musée de l’Homme and the Musée des Arts Africains et Océaniens (only 3,500 are on display.)

And the architect, Jean Nouvel, succeeded in creating a masterpiece. The building itself is extraordinary: a piece of contemporary art beneath the Eiffel Tower, situated on 19 acres of green, sprawling along the Seine. It is disjointed: a colorful mass of metal and red walls, standing on stilts, with curved glass walls and no sense of symmetry. (One wall is made entirely of exotic plants.) It is distinctly modern. Standing within the gardens, or in the ticket line beneath the building's metal overhang, you catch glimpses of the Eiffel Tower, which seems to rise directly from the museum itself.







Though the lines of tourists assemble outside the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay in the summertime, the Musée du Quai Branly is a breeze. It's only Frenchies who are curious about Chirac's new project. Upon entrance, visitors follow a long white ramp where a kaleidoscope of images is projected. Once you enter the Collections area, the light is dim (practically dark), and the museum experience is an interactive one. You walk through a corridor lined with soft walls that are meant to be touched, called La Riviere, where indigenous stories and folklore are narrated for handicapped visitors. The museum is meant to be a place of ongoing exploration of anthropology and non-Western civilizations.

Unfortunately, the presentation of the Collections fails miserably. It is chaos. Visitors walk from Oceania-- where glass cases of strange tribal artifacts are often not labeled, or explained-- into Africa, Asia, and America. A maze of haphazard objects. I couldn't help but think: This is a terribly ill-conceived effort at the better understanding of non-European civilizations. Objects, like curiosities, seem thrown together hastily. A pitiful homage to the "brown people" of the world. And are great civilizations like China, or Mali, really part of the "forgotten"?

Worse yet: the place isn't finished. They are still doing construction, the bathrooms are poorly marked in the dark basement, and in some places-- there are pieces of paper tacked above an exhibit, because the text hasn't yet been written on the exhibit wall.

Notably, the media has reported how the museum is an effort at appeasement of the African and Arab immigrant populations in France who have fallen through the cracks in the great State system. Perhaps, those groups-- leading the riots in the suburbs-- are really "the forgotten."

Hours: 10 am-6:30 pm, closed on Mondays. Tickets are EUR 8.50.
A word about the photos: the green wall of plants, and view of the Eiffel Tower through metal-mesh, were taken from inside the museum.

Fantastic related articles:
New York Times, For a New Paris Museum, Jean Nouvel Creates His Own Rules
Guardian UK, Musee des bogus arts

Les Soldes!



There is mayhem in the streets. Not entirely because of the impressive victories of Les Bleus. The French are crazed and wild-eyed with shopping fever, because now is the time of the annual Sales, which-- by law-- only occur twice a year. Stores across France have plastered their windows with signs, and slashed the prices on their wares, sometimes up to 75 percent off. Even in Limoges, I had to brave pushy people and elbows when browsing the racks.

Great deals are to be had for us consumers, but why exactly is this law in place? Why are stores only allowed to have sales from mid-January to mid-February, and from mid-June to mid-July? (Monitored by the police?) As I explained to Pierre, these laws penalize the stores, because they often have to hold on to massive inventory until the time of Les Soldes, when they can finally get rid of stuff by cutting prices. I even witnessed a shopkeeper darting in the back of her store, emerging with a box of clothes, covered in dust. Practically, Les Soldes don't make sense. And so it is with many cultural customs in France, which actually find their root in ancient historical traditions.

To quote Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong:
(Les Soldes) dates back to practices of the merchants' guilds in the Middle Ages. At that time, guilds had two functions: they settled disputes among tradesmen of one town and protected the tradesmen against competition from other towns. Guilds set the standards for quality and pricing-- they made rules along the lines of "bread can't contain more than 10 percent sand" (thankfully standards have evolved). Guilds guaranteed social protection to their members... But if individuals failed to abide by the rules set by the guild, a medieval cop known as the Provost broke their legs. Provosts evolved into police officers (though many French would dispute the claim that they evolved at all), but the system of policing prices and sales continues in the form of Les Soldes. And the practice of regulating sales pre-dates the discovery of America by at least three hundred years.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Crazy about Courgettes



We are drowning in zucchinis. Sunny days and cool, rainy nights have created the prime conditions for zucchini plants to grow out-of-control, spreading their leaves across the garden and sprouting the largest zucchinis I have ever seen. The cat piss can't even slow them down. Lucky us. We are eating them as fast as we can (lunch and dinner for MW), and there are still more to pick. I've tried sauteeing them in butter, slicing them with caramelized onions and ham, melting cheese on the top. I'm running out of ideas, desperate for recipes. Anyone, anyone?

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Hike around Lake Saint-Pardoux



My legs are killing me (still). On Sunday we decided to tackle a hike in the Limousin, and headed to a lake just 30 kilometers from Limoges. Folks descend in droves on the weekend, and hit the plage for some bronzing and rowdy fun in the sun. (I gather that the sand, like the giant parasols, was imported to the edge of the murky water.) When we arrived, the handsome park ranger was flamboyantly plastering large signs on cars that stole handicapped spots in the parking lot. He peeled off layers of thick masking tape and hung the signs on all the car windows:

If you take my parking spot, you should also take my handicap.

He led us into his office and showed us a map of the entire lake. He teased that since I'm a blond, the 28 kilometers would take longer than the normal 5h30. (What is that supposed to mean?)

And so we started out. We passed solitary (and grumpy) fishermen, who dodged Pierre's pestering questions about the fish, fields full of large, farting Limousine cattle, ancient villages with rusting tractors, streams and cascades, motorboat rentals by the shore, couples secretly kissing in the bushes, and families bbq'ing and tossing back the Kronenbourg beer. But not once did we pass another hiker.

After the three hour mark, we munched on lunch of salad (from the garden), left-over pizza (homemade) and chocolate (of course). Then continued to round another bend in the lake. It seemed to expand in all directions, and we had to hike around every curve in the perimeter. The trail was poorly marked at spots, and we ended up traveling out of our way, and adding more and more kilometers. Five hours became six, and we saw the welcoming plage up ahead. At last! We could indulge in Orangina and a Magnum ice cream! I could barely move my legs at this point. But no, when we arrived, and collapsed on the sand, we realized that the car was parked at a different plage, a good hour farther. All in all we dragged our legs and out-of-shape bodies a good 35 kilometers. A greater distance than from Limoges to the lake itself.

Monday, July 03, 2006

The French Teach Me A Thing Or Two About Partying



We went to a wedding in the Perigord on June 24: a fun weekend full of darling friends, Anjou Rose and Bergerac reds, and pretty countryside with vineyards and tasting rooms. I was surprised by the dual ceremonies required in France (first the mayor, wearing the flag, conducts a very serious civil ceremony in the town hall, and then the entire audience treks to the catholic church, where the priest, equally serious, waxes about forgiveness, while leading the religious ceremony. Between the services, the whole crew had time to duck into a cafe and drink a round of brew.) As this is the foie gras and canard capital of the world, we feasted like royalty at the reception.


We rented two farmhouses within 100 meters of the restaurant where the reception was held, with gardens, bbq, and pool. And so I learned from the French (whom stereotypes always cast as proper and reserved) a thing or two about how wedding receptions should always be. The friends of the bride and groom dressed in hilarious costumes and performed a skit during the reception. They practiced diligently the night before, wearing the wigs into the wee hours of the morning. And the after-wedding party didn't die out after midnight as is often the case; these Frenchies rocked to the best 80's hits until dawn.


[Pictured at right: I've learned a new dice game]

Football: the Symbol of Multi-Cultural France?



Apparently Le Pen has made all sorts of racist remarks about how the French team has "too many black players." The starting line-up is black, brown, white; of the few white players (Sagnol, Ribery, Barthez, off the top of my head), Ribery has converted to Islam like his Muslim wife. This team-- like the victorious 1998 team-- is heralded as a victory for French multiculturalism. This is a France of diverse colors. This is the face of France.

And for the euphoric moments of the World Cup, folks seem to put aside their differences, and think positively about the future of France, without focusing on the tensions and inequalities that stirred the riots in the Parisian suburbs within the past year.

After Saturday's gorgeous match, where Zidane's France "beat Brazil at its own game" (to quote the NYT), the streets of normally-quiet Limoges went wild. Cars spinning in circles around round-abouts, horns blaring, flags waving, fans hanging out the side of car windows. We walked down the street to watch the circus; couldn't possibly go to sleep, on such a high after the game. The Algerian men at the corner cafe assembled outside and blared a horn at every passer-by; they invited us in for drinks on the house. Kids draped in flags and carrying bottles of beer, paraded through the streets. A group of Africans in traditional garb smiled (though another group was noticeably antagonistic and shouted support for Portugal).

And this was only the quarter-final. I can't imagine the mayhem that the semis will inspire.