Petanque- Brazilian Style

Rule Numéro 1: The game of boules should be played on a Sunday afternoon when the weather is particularly fine. Not too hot-- as that would make the competitors sluggish and worthless.

Rule Numéro 2: The match should be preceded by a lunch feast with multiple courses in the French Sunday tradition. Roast beef with garden vegetables, salad and fromage, tarte tatin... (The heavier the better.)

Rule Numéro 3: Said meal should be accompanied by copious quantities of wine, preferably a different bottle for each course. Aperitifs and digestifs are mandatory. (As is a small cup of espresso before departing for the local park and boules courts.)

Rule Numéro 4: There is no such thing as a tie. It's imperative to use a measuring device to determine who has scored closest to the cochonnet (that's the name for the little ball). Thus, the tape measure pictured at right. Though a simple stick will also suffice.

We introduced my favorite Brazilians, Maira and Bruno, to the brilliant game of Petanque on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Limoges. I believe it will become a Sunday tradition.

Wine-tasting in the Deux-Sèvres

Believe it or not, there are vineyards in the Deux-Sèvres. In a country famed for its big wine-producing regions-- Rhone, the Loire, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Alsace, Languedoc, and Champagne, of course-- there are enclaves where smaller producers create tasty varietals. The Romans introduced the art of wine-making to Gaul, and the monks-- God bless 'em-- kept the tradition alive during the Middle Ages. Today small family-owned vignerons like Arnault & Fils continue the art.

One of my favorite things to do on a visit to La Chapelle Saint-Laurent is to accompany Pierre's father on one of his wine-buying missions to Arnault & Fils (Le Pressoir a Cales). Just south of Angers and the Loire Valley, not far from Bressuire in Bouillé-Loretz, Arnault & Fils has produced its wines for four generations. Appellations represented are: Anjou Blanc, Anjou Rouge, Rosé de Loire, Crémant de Loire, Cabernet d'Anjou, and Anjou Village.

The sun is shining and the fields surrounding the winery are abloom with wildflowers. Outside the family's house, a wooden mailbox has been adopted by a small nesting bird. A polite sign is tacked nearby: "Please do not deliver the mail here, as the mailbox is now occupied." We duck into the cool tasting room where the walls are plastered with ancient posters and wine paraphernalia. Pierre's father grins and we clink our glasses together in a toast. My favorite is the delicious, sweet rosé: Cabernet d'Anjou. I like the idea of buying locally. We stock up on inexpensive bottles and boxes, but I hope we'll be back soon.

Arnault & Fils Vignerons.
79290 Bouillé-Loretz
Tel: 05 49 67 04 85
Open Monday-Saturday, 9-12; 2-6 p.m.

Presidential Election in France: Ségo vs. Sarko

France is buzzing with la politique. The Presidential election has generated unprecedented interest across the country-- from cosmopolitan Paris to the smallest, quaint villages. There was massive voter participation in the first round yesterday; 85-87% of France's registered voters cast ballots, a mind-boggling turn-out. Bloggers had their fingers on the pulse of the national mood (as France is a country of bloggers, with the highest per capita number of bloggers worldwide), describing the popular fixation on the race. As folks frantically sought news of the election-- through SMS, MSN messenger, blogs, traditional news sources like TV and radio, every available technology-- blogs went down because of the high levels of traffic.

Pierre's family voted ensemble in La Chapelle-Saint-Laurent. The voting system seemed simple and fool-proof. Candidates names were printed in bold letters on 12 separate pieces of paper. Each voter shuffled through the line to select the papers, ducked into a voting booth, slipped the piece of paper with their chosen candidate into an envelope, and then dropped the envelope into the ballot box after showing their official election registration card and signing the voter list.

But we noticed something strange at this small regional voting outpost: José Bové's name was missing from the stacks of votes outside the booths. Voters had a choice of only 11 of the 12 candidates. And in France, voters are not allowed to write in the names of candidates as we are in the U.S. (A safety precaution against election fraud.) I have been fascinated by the French election in comparison with the U.S. system. I have been impressed with the leveling of the playing field: the limits on campaign spending, the careful mediation of media attention, the absence of political ads on TV (what a relief to not have to suffer through a season of attack ads).

But it seemed strange that Bové's name was missing from the candidate list because-- apparently-- he didn't bother to provide the funds for it. (Note: For the photo at right, Pierre dashed out to the car to grab a Bové ballot. Each French voter receives a stack of ballots in the mail, along with literature on each candidate. The brochures are the same exact size, the same paper quality-- another example of the leveled playing field.)

France is passionate about politics. But the record numbers at the polls yesterday were not a sign of passion for a particular candidate. Indeed, news outlets were predicting a toss-up ("Anything can happen!") because of the large numbers of undecided voters. Pierre was still debating his choice minutes before he dropped his vote in the ballot box. Rather, many French citizens wanted to avoid a repeat of the embarrassing 2002 election, when Le Pen succeeded in advancing to the second round because the left's voting block was split by myriad smaller candidates. This time, many voters from the left banded together to cast their vote for the Socialist Ségolène Royal and assure that Le Pen could not advance to the next round. (Le Pen has a loyal contingent of voters. He received 10.5% of the vote yesterday.)

I've been disappointed in the NY Times coverage of the race because of their failure to talk about Bayrou, the centrist candidate, who came in third yesterday with 18.8% of the vote. For me, Bayrou has become a symbol of French dissatisfation with the traditional, competing left-right divide in politics. Bayrou, the independent with roots on the farm, offered a new, non-partisan way of governing, bridging the gap between parties.

Let the show-down begin. In two weeks, after the run-off election on May 6, France will determine its future course, perhaps with its first woman president.

Update: Electoral malfunctions are not limited to the grand state of Florida. It turns out that La Chapelle Saint-Laurent's votes were disqualified because of the mix-up with Bové's ballots. C'est dommage.

Cafeteria Food and Other Reasons to Learn French in France

Cafeterias everywhere get a bad rap. It's always easy to crack jokes about institutionalized food, even in the world's gastronomic capital. (Pictured: Gabriel, my Brazilian friend, pokes fun of his half-empty tray-- displaying the only edible menu options: water and bread.) But for EUR 2,75, who's complaining? At the dining hall at the University of Limoges, lunch is quite a civilized affair. One must choose a salad, main course, fromage, and dessert, accompanied by a bread roll, of course. If you happen to turn your nose up at the day's plat (sting ray, anyone?), there's always the pizza and fries option. The cafeteria is civilized even when it's packed with hungry students jostling for a place in line; murmurs of "Pardon" or "Oh no, after you," thread the conversation.

Learning French in France has many advantages, cultural and linguistic immersion being the most obvious. But right up there on the list is price. Like the ridiculously inexpensive lunch, a full year of language classes at the University of Limoges is about EUR 500. For 16 hours a week, two full semesters.

What's on at the Palais de Tokyo, Paris

For a fun, wholly amusing diversion in Paris, head over to the Palais de Tokyo to check out Michel Blazy's thought-provoking new exhibit "Post Patman." Running until May 6, 2007, the show is described as "an exhibition born out of organic proliferation." You can't even imagine. Mix chocolate, dog biscuits, sugar, oranges, carrots, and all sorts of everyday organic matter and what do you get? Mildew, mushrooms, decrepit rot, the pungent stink of quick degeneration, with lots of buzzing flies...

A few weeks ago, we checked out the Palais de Tokyo on a rainy Saturday. I walked in the exhibit room and was baffled. I noticed little birds nibbling on what looked like a mountain of spun sugar. As they ate, their feet would get stuck in the sticky yellow substance. Were the birds part of the exhibit? How on earth did they get inside the room? To my left, a moss-covered fish tank. To my right, more birds pecked crumbs from a skeleton made of dog biscuits. And in front of me, an orange wall was sprouting mushrooms.

The metamorphoses are slow, but over the lifetime of the exhibit seem quite rapid. Everyday processes take on a different meaning in the context of the exhibit space. I found myself craning my neck for a closer examination. Those shriveled black things are actually carrots? And as I leaned in for a better look, I noticed the patterns within the slimy mess. Degeneration, like so many biological processes, may seem random, but there is really order within the chaos. The artist had painted the orange wall with a liquid mix of food and kitchen supplies in a pattern of triangles and diamonds-- as if to call our attention to this concept of order.

Look closely (examining the little army of mushrooms sticking out perpendicular from the wall) and the smallest pieces of matter seem to follow an orderly pattern. Which gets you thinking about the shapes of molecules and atoms and the tiniest particles of matter and... I digress. You get the picture. It's all about the rhyme and reason behind apparent chaos.



Our favorite part of the exhibit was the green recycling bins filled with shaving cream. Each morning, the museum staff would launch the experiment: mixing chemicals to ignite the foam to bubble and expand. Each green bin represented a different phase in the growth of the mass-- before it eventually toppled over and hit the floor. (You can see our friend Fred in the background, arms crossed in front of him, mesmerized by the show.)

P.S. The chairs are the Palais de Tokyo are pretty cool too. And comfortable. With the free WIFI, you could easily camp out here for an entire day.

Spring Fever in France

By far the best time to visit France? Right about now. Sunshine-filled days are complemented by cool breezes and cloudless blue skies. The parks in Limoges are packed with petanque-playing gentlemen, families checking out the duck ponds, and couples basking au soleil.

The French have it right. Spring is a time to be outside and celebrate the flowers and thawed (at long last) temperatures. It seems the entire month of May is one long holiday. And if you play it right, you can plan all sorts of four-day weekends. See, this year the first of May (the fête du travail) and the 8th of May (the férié celebrating the end of WWII) happen to fall on Tuesday. So most folks are living it up with back-to-back four day weekends, what's called les ponts de Mai. (The "bridge" being the extra day between the weekend and the holiday.)

Blue wildflowers are blossoming recklessly across the patio. In fact, the flowers are everywhere. Check out the pic. Over the Easter weekend, Manu and I biked the voie verte in the Deux-Sèvres (a new bike path along the ancient railway line connecting Bressuire and Parthenay) to Damien's farm. Pictured at right: the proud, young farmer checking out his herd (and the newly-purchased Limousine bull).

Easter= A Year in Limoges

On my return from the university, I switch buses at Place d'Aine. The bus stop is conveniently located smack dab in front of a specialty chocolate store. So I usually have about 10 minutes to drool in front of the window display. Easter means the vitrine is stacked with chocolate chickens, real egg shells filled with chocolate, and whole armies of marzipan animals. Especially tempting are the larger sized eggs wrapped in colorful ribbon. When you untie the bow, the two perfect halves fall apart to reveal a treasure of smaller eggs and chocolate fish inside. Too beautiful (and pricey) to eat.

I snap out of my chocolate-coated reverie to realize: It's been a year since we moved to Limoges!

Nicolas Hulot and the Pacte Écologique

France is abuzz with l'élection présidentielle. (For a break-down of all 12 candidates, from the bigot Le Pen to McDonald's-smashing José Bové, check out Why Travel To France.) A few weeks ago in Paris, we headed to the Zenith, in the beautiful Parc de la Villette (19th arrondissement), to hear Nicolas Hulot talk about his Pacte écologique. The environmentalist superstar, famous for his televised nature show Ushuaïa, has insisted that the future French president prioritize environmental issues and mandate a program of action.

The Zenith was packed for this free event (attendees were required to register over the Internet and print the corresponding email as the entrance "ticket"). As to be expected, Hulot dazzled the audience. Folks leapt to their feet after he spoke, clapping wildly. The only let-down was the recital of a poem by an Hulot fan-- well-intentioned, but poorly-conceived-- in the vein of "I Have A Dream."

Outside, we noticed the trees wrapped in various colors-- a symbol that environmentalism is not just a movement for the "Greens."

Don't Miss in Paris: Musée National du Moyen Age

I found a sublime hideaway in the heart of the Latin Quarter. So what if the gift shop was packed with tourists from Espagne? (Yes, tourist season is upon us in the nation's capital.) Blvd St Germain may be crawling with visitors but the small museum is still blissfully tranquil.


The setting is magical. Housed in the 15th century Cluny Abbey, the musée was built on the site of Gallo-Roman baths dating from the 3rd century. Descend into the chilly basement frigidarium, and the cavernous space-- dimly lit and lined with statues and artifacts from the site-- will guarantee goose bumps pocking the spine.

Outside, the beautiful medieval garden recalls the landscape of the Middle Ages: there is a ménagier, or kitchen garden, with vegetables perfect for hearty winter stews, traditional medecines garden planted with nine herbs, and a contemporary sculpture positioned in the middle of the terrace. Commissioned in 2000, La Forêt de la Licorne is named for the spectacular tapestries on display in the museum. Collectively called La Dame à la Licorne, the series of six colorful wall hangings each depict one of the different senses. (The photo below is dark, but I'm guessing the pictured tapestry is all about "touch.")

Inside, the architectural details are stunning (check out the ceiling of the chapel, at right). And I thoroughly enjoyed the collections: manuscripts, armor, stained glass windows, religious sculptures and paintings. But the most fascinating of all are the objects from everyday life: the hefty metal keys are still used across France to this day. (Whenever I go for a jog, I must deal with stashing the enormous, awkward house-key, a small archaic vestige of a culture filled with many.)

A Capricious Spring in France

I actually got sunburned on Tuesday. Jogging through the park, sun high in the sky, I found myself smiling at the perfect spring temperatures. Older couples strolled arm in arm, gentlemen gathered for games of chess and boules, a father and son fished in the pond. I saw a hedgehog nosing through the flowers and stopped running just to grin at the little guy.

But yesterday I almost got frostbite waiting for the bus. I kid you not. Foolishly, I assumed a fleece was sufficient for a mild spring day in France, and ended up begging for a down parka and serious gloves. The flowers are as confused as I am. The strawberries are already flowering in the garden, tulips and daffodils ablooming. Alas.