Trail angels

This woman and her child live in St. Julia de Bec, France. I don’t know their names or their story, except on Wednesday they were my trail angels.

To long-distance hikers, trail angels can be life-savers or just someone who makes the sojourn more comfortable so you can make that summit or even get back home.
I was in the middle of a 19.8-mile round-trip from Quillan to 2,600-foot Mazuby, known locally as "the elephants" because of its hump topography, when I ran out of water. It was 91 degrees under a cloudless sky.
No problem.  I had planned to refuel in nearby St. Julia. However, I had forgotten to check for restaurants, bars or stores there before setting off. Walking through the small village I came across the woman and asked where I could buy water and food.
No place near, she said.
Le Tour Mazuby? she asked.
Oui.
Eau? She made the motion of drinking from a glass.
Non, I said pointing to empty bottles.
She motioned me to come inside her home. She pulled out two store-bought bottled waters, one with bubbles and one without. I didn’t want to take water she bought.
Tap, she said.
Oui, merci.
She filled a glass of water. I finished it in three gulps. Then she filled my bottles.
Fruit? she asked
S’il vous plaît.
She handed me two peaches and a banana.
I left her a few euros for her kindness over her protestations. Like in the U.S., Good Samaritans in France don't expect payment. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I gave a couple of merci beaucoups, waved and left. Only down the trail did I realized I hadn't asked their names.
The peaches were the sweetest I’ve ever had.

I’ve encountered trail angels hiking in Appalachia, like the elderly guy who parks his pickup along a road that splits a trail to pass out oranges and water to hikers, or the local couple who drops you off at a hotel in town.
Now, it’s good to know they’re an international phenomenon.

What's in a name

We live in Quillan, France. It's  a lovely village of about 3,400 through which the Aude River runs fast enough through downtown for competitive kayaking training. 

It sits in an amphitheater of the Pyrenees foothills. It's an hour from the Spanish border. Each July and August is packed with festivals, fairs, car and cycling races. In 1929 it was the rugby champion of France.

The main industry used to be Formica, now tourism is closing in. That's due in big part to 10 percent of the 3,500 occupants being Brits, Americans, Australians and a few other English-speaking cousins.

A favorite sport is petanque, a French form of boules or lawn bowling where you toss a hollow metal ball overhand to get as as close as possible to a small target ball, a cochonnet (piglet). It's the French version of Italian bocce in which you roll underhand a larger, solid wood or resin ball on a smooth surface to get as close to the target. A petanque tournament is held each year in Quillan.

So why is a bowling ball and three pins similar to bowling alley pins on Quillan's coat of arms, instead of petanque balls and a cochonnet?

In French, quille is bowling, a game that's been played in Europe for hundreds of years, including in Quillan whose name was first mentioned in the 12th century, according to the village's official website. Back then variations of bowling consisted of three or more pins and small wooden balls depending on where the game was played.

Still, why bowling pins and balls and not petanque balls?

Ah, let us return to the Pyrenees, a big attraction here. The mountain range was created by the movement of the African continent, which left behind numerous pointed, sharp peaks in the Quillan area. According to several sources the peaks resembled the tall bins used in lawn bowling.

Three quilles in Quillan
as seen from L'Amour Vert.

In the western U.S. there are the Grand Tetons, which arguably was named by a (probably lonely) French explorer and in French means "large teats or nipples." Could not Petit Tetons have been more appropriate for the range around Quillan? Perhaps not. What symbol would you have then put  on the coat of arms?
I expect to receive a blistering comment from a town native that my research was in error.
"Non, c'est faux. Idiot!"

Actually, the point could be considered moot since the village has since adopted a stylized symbol, right, that more accurately features one of the area's main attribute. Those are mountains, just to be clear. I assme.

Oradour-sur-Glane

Europe's long history includes many examples of unconscionable inhumanity. Preserved reminders such as death camps and memorials to victims dot the landscape.

Yesterday, we stopped at Oradour-sur-Glane in the department of Limousin in western France. The village remains in the same burned-out condition German SS troops left it after slaughtering 642 men, women and children on June 10, 1944, four days after D-Day.

The Germans arrived shortly after 2 p.m. in several armored cars and trucks. At first, the villagers were more curious than worried because Oradour had been left alone during the war. But then everyone was ordered to the town square.

The men were separated and taken to six sheds and barns. The 500  women and children were taken to the village church.

The men were machine-gunned, shot in the legs first to prevent them from fleeing. Those who showed signs of life were shot point-blank. The Germans covered the bodies with wood and straw and set it afire, while those not yet dead screamed in agony. Several men escaped in the smoke and flames.

A building where men were executed.

Soldiers then went to the church, where the women thought they and the children might be released. Instead, two soldiers lit a poisonous device and hurried out the doors, which they locked behind them. The troops shot women and children who tried to escape or hide, including a boy and girl later found in the confessional. Only one woman escaped, by jumping nine feet out a window. None of the 246 children survived. The only child in the village to live was a refugee boy who knew to flee when the soldiers first arrived.

Before leaving, the Germans torched the church, barns, sheds and most every building.

The church where the women and 246 children died.

President Charles de Gaulle ordered the town be preserved. Crumbled buildings still show charring from the flames. Only the rusted metal remains of cars.

The school for girls.

Several sewing machines stand as reminders of domestic life.

Walking the streets of Oradour where at one tick of the clock were filled with the peaceful sounds of ordinary life on a warm June afternoon, of men and women chatting or going about their work and children playing after school, and the next transformed into a silent tomb, was overwhelming.

About 30 residents avoided death by fleeing when the Germans arrived or being away from the village. Six unfortunate young people who happened to bicycle  through the village while the Germans were there were were seized and killed.

Entire families were killed.

The officer who ordered the massacre and many soldiers who partcipated were killed in the Battle of Normandy.

Surprisingly, several German and Alsatian troops (the latter from the Alsace region of France at the German border) convicted in the 1950s and sentenced to death or prison terms, were later pardoned.

The Germans either denied involvement in the attack or said it was retaliation because the village was a hotbed of French Resistance activity. Historians said if the latter excuse was the case, the Germans likely attacked the wrong village. Another French village, Oradour-sur-Vayres, was an important Resistance center.

‘Victoire à la France’

We spent what we in the U.S. call VE Day on Tuesday with folks in the French village of Loubillé. Here it’s Victory in France.

In Paris, it involves a huge parade down the Champs Élysée. In Loubillé, population 400, about a score or more of villagers walked 2 kilometers out of town to a memorial at the edge of some woods. Here German troops executed three men on July 24, 1944. They were members of the French Resistance formed after France surrendered early in the war.

Mairie (Mayor) Gérard Collet  read an account of the incident. The men had been captured elsewhere. The truck carrying them stopped in the woods, where they were shot and left to lie where they fell.

Collet also played an anthem of the Resistance: 

"... tonight the enemy will know the price of blood and tears ...Take the rifles, the machine gun, the grenades out of the straws."

France’s Vichy government surrendered in part to spare the country a repeat of the horror from WWI when its military lost 1.4 million killed.

In WWII, the French army lost 210,000 killed. The number includes 68,000 freedom fighter deaths. More than 390,000 French civilians were killed by the fighting or executions.

The U.S. suffered 420,000 military deaths and 12,000 civilians killed, mostly merchant seamen.

Freedom to speak

For 40 years I've kept my opinions to myself as a professional journalist. I never let them influence a story and I never joined a protest, until now. I retired from my last newspaper job in December and on Saturday took part in my first demonstration, March For Our Lives.

Me and some guy with something in common
at Saturday's march in Aix-en-Provence.

It wasn't in my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, or in D.C. It was with 120 other expats or vacationing Americans in Aix-en-Provence, France. It's been my wife's dream to live in France. I bought into it and we're spending the year deciding whether we actually will take the big step next year.

If we do, I'll still be a taxpaying American, still concerned with what happens in my homeland, in part because I have three grown children facing gun violence, outrageous health-insurance costs, cuts on environmental protections and politicians demonizing a free press when it doesn't kiss their ass. So obviously I'm a liberal. I like to say center-left.

I bit my tongue when unreasonable gun enthusiasts called the newspaper to complain about gun control "nuts." I listened to their arguments, discussed both sides with them and hoped that they at least had found a sounding board for their opinion. It's a proud tradition of newspapers, or should be.

I no longer have such professional constraints.

I support banning all semiautomatic rifles. You want to have one, join the military, where one day you might get to use that gun for its sole purpose, to kill many enemy troops. Hopefully it will be in the defense of democracy and the country.

Or go rip off as many rounds as you want at a firing range. Just leave the gun there when you're done. I understand the thrill. I attended an FBI citizens academy where firing a Thompson machine gun and a semiautomatic rifle were the highlights.

You want an AR-15 to hunt? You're a lousy sportsman. Hunting rifle or shotgun should be all you need. Or try a bow and arrow if you're really up for a challenge.

You want it for home security? A handgun or shotgun is ample protection.

You have some crazy theory of government troops taking your gun during a military coup? Good luck with that pea shooter against a tank. This isn't 1776.

Have a handgun, shotgun, hunting rifle with a five-round magazine if you want. There's no practical reason for a civilian to have an AR-15 with a 30- or 60-round magazine or similar weapon. And don't hide behind the Second Amendment. The luxury of allowing these killing machines has cost us too many dead children and concert-goers.

I know I might get a lot of opposing comments. Save your carpal tunnel. I'm not here to debate. I won't change your mind and you won't change mine. Post your own blog.

This mid-term election, you vote for your gun-rights candidate and I'll vote for my gun-control candidate.

That's how we solve these issues in a democracy.

If you win, I'll be out there protesting. If I win, I'll expect the same from you, my fellow American.

Burger vs. baguette

The Americanization of French food has hit a new high, or low considering your viewpoint. More hamburgers on a bun were sold in this culinary-crazy country last year than the ubiquitous "jambon-beurre baguette," sliced ham on a buttered French loaf.

Chalkboard ad outside Marseille restaurant.
 "Du moment" is the new "du jour,"
 or "today's special."

The tally was 1.46 billion burgers compared to 1.22 billion baguette sandwiches, Gira Conseil, which monitors the consumption of food in France outside the home, told the Reuters news agency. The French ate 14 times fewer burgers a decade ago.

"But the French are now crazy about burgers. You find them everywhere, from fast food to Michelin-starred restaurants," Gira Conseil director Bernard Boutboul told Reuters. 

It's not just Mickey D or Burger King steadily gaining in popularity. Of French restaurants, 85 percent now offer a kind of burger, Boutboul said.

I recently  participated in this sea change having ordered a burger off the menu at a bistro in Aix-en-Provence.

I made the mistake of ordering a French hamburger during a visit several years ago. It was barely edible. This time was an experiment. I was expecting another odd-tasting concoction as if its origin was an animal of a different hoof than a cow. It would be on the red side of pink because I ordered it medium. (Ask for medium-well or well down in France, you usually still get medium.)

I was surprised at how good it was. The patty wasn't bleeding all over the plate and tasted close to a burger from a good American restaurant or bar. However, as the French are wont to do, it was topped with a different-tasting sauce; good, just different. Ketchup, mustard or steak sauce would have made it an excellent fit for my Midwest palate. 

Paulita with almost-daily baguette.

The bun was a little dry, but that's sometimes the case at American joints.

"The rest of us had leg of lamb," francophile Paulita noted. 

Like I said, it was an experiment. I'm not about to give up my frequent ration of a baguette with ham and cheese. But I might have a burger now and then, with frites, of course.

Mountains vs. ocean

I might be facing a dilemma.
I retired in December and we decided to spend this year living in France. If we want to make it permanent, we'll buy a house here next year.
We've rented a home in the small village of Quillan in the southwest of the country in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

Sunrise over the mountains around Quillan.

I love the mountains. Back home in the States I'd try to backpack as often as I could in the Appalachian chain or West Virginia or southern Ohio. I preferred camping on mountaintops for the wind and view instead of  designated campsites in the hollers.  Quillan is perfect because we can literally walk less than a mile to several trail heads, every day. We feel healthier after a 2,000-foot climb and walking to the town center for food, the market or a drink by the Aude River. However, I don't know if overnight camping in the mountains is allowed in France.
A big plus, though, is that the housing prices in Quillan are within our budget. Perfect, I thought. I could definitely live here.
Then some friends let us stay at their condo in the Atlantic beach town of Chatelaillon-Plage south of La Rochelle. It's an ocean-front apartment with a terrace.

Sunset on the Atlantic at Chatelaillon-Plage.

We can hear the breaking of the waves, walk along the huge sandy beach and watch the kite and wind surfers and sailboats glide across the crests. It reminds me of our years in St. Petersburg, Fla. We'd go to the beach with friends to have a beer and blackened grouper at the Hurricane restaurant and watch the sun set over the Gulf. Sometimes I'd go by myself and stay until the sun went down, listening to the waves and finding myself feeling calm and even dozing off.
When I was younger I always thought it would be cool to live in a waterfront tourist town. Even when I was older, the traffic and tourist hassles were worth living close to the water.
Then I saw the prices of homes in Chatelaillon-Plage. Reality check. They are way out of our reach, and the same probably is true of any beachfront home in France, or even St. Pete.
Maybe we can find a less expensive place close to a beach in a less touristy area where there are ample amenities like restaurants, markets, wine shops and patisseries. Getting an idea of our priorities?
We have the rest of the year to decide whether France will be our new home, and where.
Right now, the mountains are calling. But who knows?

And we're walking, we're walking...

We've found the perfect yin and yang in Europe: Food and walking.
Our house-sit in England is about a mile from the town of Reigate, where we often walk for groceries, just to walk -- and for breakfast or lunch or dinner. Only one meal a day and not every day. (The British pound is almost half as much again as the dollar.)
We walk everywhere after having decided not to get a car from the rent-a-ripoff place where we had reserved one. No car, no problem.

Waffles topped with sliced truffles and chantilly.

Today, we walked to a newly discovered (for us) coffee shop chain in Reigate called Monty Bojangles Truffle Bar & Coffee Lounge. We had tea there the other day and decided to come back for its truffle-chocolate-coffee drink. I'm sure it had as many calories as the name implies. After a walk through Priory Park we decided to return to Monty for its waffles with truffles and whipped cream breakfast. Again, it was "don't ask, don't tell" as far as calories. On the way home, Paulita's Fitbit had calculated we walked 3.8 miles.
Then it was time to walk the dogs. We took Spud and Minnow for a 50-minute walk up the hill into the woods and back. As we neared home, the Fitbit had tallied almost 6 miles.

Our daily path.

OK, so it wasn't a a 6-mile jog, but surely it burned some fat, right?
All I know is that since we arrived in France and adopted its eating culture, we feel healthier. The food is fresh and you walk everywhere. Hankering for a croissant? You'll probably burn off the calories beforehand walking to get it. The food in France is rich, but the portions are less than in America. Less sugar is used but the French do love their butter. And meals are leisurely, at least an hour or more. Then we would walk around the town and back to our apartment. Today, we had a late lunch of turkey sandwiches. Two meals a day often does it for us.
In England, the portions are a bit larger and the food heavier, but again you walk.
Back home in Columbus, I walked a lot and rarely drove, instead taking the bus.  I was working, and with work comes stress. I ate when I was stressed and often ate after coming home late from work. Since I retired in December, and we sold our house and most of our belongings, my stress level has dropped to Barely Perceptible.

Mountains surround Quillan, France.

We'll continue to be without a car until perhaps May, when we move into a rented house in Quillan, an out-of-the way village in southwestern France where most days include a hike up a mountain in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
Or maybe the 1-euro bus that connects Quillan with larger cities and their train lines and airports will be enough as we visit other countries in Europe and beyond. When we get where we're going, we'll just hoof it.

It's cold, for England

Spuds retrieves a frozen squirrel carcass.

For an update on our England adventure, including mishaps and successes, got to Paulita' s blog posting, Jolly Cold England.

Between English earth and sky

Our temporary home in the country outside Reigate 

We hit another jackpot with our third house sit. We are watching three well-behaved dogs - two dachshunds and a Spaniel - for a lovely couple in Reigate, England about 20 miles outside London. The 1800s four-bedroom house has been refurbished inside and out but maintains its English country charm. We're about a mile from Reigate, an upscale community with plenty of pubs and shop.

Our charges require one long walk in the morning - in the snowfall today! - and three meals a day. They're a fun group and there are woods and hilly climbs to enjoy. The temperatures are forecast in the 30s (F) the rest of the week with more snow. We'll still get out to see the sights, and come back to a nice wood fire in the hearth.

Spuds

The flight from Montpellier to Gatwick Airport was about 1 1/2 hours. Paulita swore I said "merci" twice after arriving. I'm sure to say "cheers!" on our return to France in three weeks. Our first stop there will be two days at a beachfront apartment on the Atlantic coast near La Rochelle, then two days in Paris to pick up a friend from Columbus before returning to base camp in Aix-en-Provence.

Cheers!

Market day

Like most French towns, Quillan has an open-air market where vendors sell fresh food, clothing, books, even tools and furniture. It's one of the country's attractions for us. Quillan's second of the week was today. After Paulita's run and my walk up the hiking path and back, we strolled down to the market. We weren't planning to buy a lot of stuff. We had food for lunch at our apartment and had cancelled dinner reservations  at ''the best'' restaurant in town, a meal likely to cost 75 euro (About $80) or more.

Today's market/patisserie haul. (Wine excluded.)

Then we came upon the vendor selling rotisserie chicken. That would make a fine lunch and we could save the cold cuts we planned to have  for later. 8 euros for the chicken to go along with a can of beans I had bought at the grocery. Then a woman selling cheese called Paulita over to try a sample. It was good and would go well with the chicken. 3 euros. We decided to buy two apples for hiking snacks. Another 1,5 euro. A tomato would go well with the sandwiches we make sometime. Way less than a euro. A Lebanese couple was selling treats they bake. Loved the samples. 2 euros for a variety pack we could take on a hike.

On the way home we stopped at the patisserie for a baguette of Qullianaise, a local specialty bread. On the shelf were an eclair cafe and a "cookie maison"  that needed homes. 4 euros.

The lunch was good and we'll have either leftover chicken or sandwiches for dinner. That's if we have dinner. Two meals a day (including pastries for breakfast) usually is enough for us, especially being in retirement/vacation mode.

We'll try the expensive restaurant tomorrow for lunch.

The lesson here is always bring a bag to the market, even if you don't plan to buy a thing.

Reality check

I had high hopes for the four-bedroom house that was for sale at an affordable price in Quillan. West-facing for afternoon sun, on a quiet plaza and with a balcony off the bedroom. It was perfect -- on the outside.

Inside it was large, having been a former cafe. There were huge wooden beams and new double-glazed windows.

However, every room needed major work. All the walls showed signs of water damage, the floor underlayment was soft and the electrics questionable. The upstairs WC needed a bath/shower unit. The kitchen would have to be gutted and maybe relocated. If we had double the funds in our bank account, and I had 10 fewer years on the age clock, then maybe. But then I wouldn't be retired and in France, Paulita noted.

The experience prompted us to reconsider our original idea to rent for a while. That would give us more time to house hunt, and to be flexible if we decide to return home to the U.S. in December because we miss the kids and family, or that living abroad just doesn't suit us. So far we feel like we're on vacation, and the goal is still to eventually find a home here.

Paulita got on the phone to arrange to see a few apartments. Once again, her French language skills were impressive. We have two showings on Monday before leaving to spend a week in Pezenas, the other village we're considering. One is on a quiet plaza near the village church and the other on a narrow street near the Aude River that flows through town.

Fingers crossed.

Donut test II and Valentine's Day

If you recall, the first French donut I tried, in Aix-en-Provence, didn't impress. So, i tried one at a patisserie in Qullian. I must say, this donut ranked with the best in the U.S. It was a pastry dough with dark chocolate icing. Of course, the dessert wine acsentuated the flavor.

We also spent time with Australian friends Dennis and Jenny, who took us on a tour of the hidden shops and restaurants/bars they frequent. They also showed us homes that were for sale and some details about the places and why they were for sale. The market is suppressed because Brits, a big part of the buyers, were waiting for the pound to strengthen against the euro. There's also the fear of what happens if they leave the European Union and its benefits.

This four-bedroom place was the most expressive with a pricetag around $100,000. We plan to meet with an immoblier (real estate agent) to take a look inside this and other homes.  Word is you immediately offer 10 percent less and negotiate further. Less expensive houses, down to the five figures, are also candidates. We will visit Pezenas to the northeast closer to the Mediterranean, where homes are likely more expensive, so it's good to know Quillan is more affordable. The village has a market twice a week and really comes alive in the spring and summer with bike races, concerts and festivals. We agree that living here, with the mountains and the fast-running Aude River, would would be a healthy lifestyle. A doctor once encouraged me to have 5 ounces of red wine a day for a healthy heart. I tend to overmedicate at times.

It's been a nice Valentine's Day. No flowers, gifts or expensive meals. Just a married couple of 27 years spending the day walking around what might be our future home, looking at potential homes and feeling that we might spend our lives here. As with every day, there's a stop at the patisserie-boulangerie for pastries and a baguette.

Sentier de Capio

I add a rock to the cairn atop Sentier de Capio.

.

We did another 1,200 hike today, this time up 2,100 foot Sentier de Capio, another mountain that surrounds Quillan. Unlike yesterday’s straight-up climb, Capio’s was a more gentle slope but lots of boulders near the top. Again, we had to decipher the trail blazes that kept changing colors because several trails were using the same paths.
This was the trail we couldn’t finish last year when we got lost in the village of Ginoles. Since then they’ve added more directional signs.

 Quillan seen from our walk up the mountain.

Wikiloc helped keep us on the right paths, even though it disagreed with the signage at times.
Today’s forecast is for rain, possible snow, all day. Our hike might be postponed until tomorrow.
Happy Valentine’s Day. We plan to spend it looking at a potential house in Quillan and lunch at a restaurant recommended to us. Certainly, chocolate and wine will be involved.

The mountains call

Quillan, France surrounded by hills and mountains.

To loosely quote famed naturalist John Muir, "the mountains of Quillan, France, are calling and we must go." We arrived Sunday in the small village located about 60 miles north of Spain. It's nestled in the foothills of the Pyrenees, which is why it's one of two locations under consideration for our new home.

Of course, we had to strike out on one of those hills on Monday, 1,200 feet up Pic de Bitrague. It wasn't the highest climb but several sections were extremely steep grades. Our effort was rewarded with some great views. The most amazing was a golden eagle that swooped up from below us not 10 feet away. He made wide circles to return and ride the updraft next to the sheer face. He kept that up until it started to snow, actually tiny beads of hail.

Paulita celebrating at the summit, 2,116 feet above sea level.

There are dozens of hikes of  varying difficulty close to Quillan. Trailheads and paths aren't as well marked as in the U.S. We used an app called wikiloc to follow the trail. Even then the app seemed confused, telling us we were straying but then  immediately saying we were on the right path.

We need to work in a couple of more hikes while we're here this week because in June we're walking sections of the El Camino de Santiago in France, part of The Way, the pilgrimage trails to the cathedral in Galicia in northwestern Spain. True to European hiking culture, we're staying at lodges instead of camping out.

The mountains and its proximity to Spain make Quillan a contender. Next week we'll spend in Pezenas, a larger village farther north and closer to the Med. We hope to pick the winner in April.

Customer service Part II

I neglected to mention another merchant in the previous post. While shopping for a hat and haircut, we had left my computer at a shop in Cognac for repairs. It was stuck in tablet mode so the keyboard didn't work. After a few hours we returned. The technician had tried several fixes but none worked. Because he  wasn't confident of his English to correctly follow some of the prompts, he charged us a whopping zero euros because he couldn't fix it. In the U.S. it would cost $70 just to have someone look at the thing.

Customer service

I was reminded yesterday of the focus French merchants put on service.

The winning hat.

Paulita and I walked by a clothing store in Cognac that sold Scottish sweaters, warm jackets -- and hats, Stetson hats. I half-heartedly mentioned after passing the store on a previous trip that I thought the hats were cool. "Try one on," Paulita said. Inside, the lone worker, probably the owner, was assisting an elderly couple with a pair of pants. We exchanged bonjours but she continued laser focused on the couple over a pair of pants for the gentleman, who was going back and forth about whether to buy the pants. The owner didn't break away to make sure we stayed put. "We just wait our turn," Paulita explained. So we had fun trying on hats. After 10 or so minutes the couple decided and the purchase was made. Other French customers came in.  An American, I didn't expect the same attention the elderly French couple received. I was wrong. She told the new customers bonjour and came over to us. She spent time explaining the hats' properties, checking sizes (I'm a 61, extra large, or as Paulita put it in French to the woman, "He has a very big head.") The owner had me try on several styles. She and Paulita gave their assessments. With a wince, frown or nod the owner made her opinion clear. It came down to two. I let the owner in on the final vote. She and Paulita picked the one you see here. (It has hidden ear flaps!). At the register the owner  demonstrated how  the hat was "crushable" by rolling it up, then fluffing it and forming the creases. She even rushed to hold the door for us when we left.

With a new hat I, of course, needed a hair cut. We saw a shop, Hollywood Coiff. Only 10 euro, or about $12.50. We went inside, passing through the curtain of beads ala 1970s. The other customers were young guys getting side shaves with mops on top and razor edgings. The stylist was a young guy flashing the razor, both electric and straight varieties. I expected blood spatter at the speed he was going. My turn came and wondered if he would be repulsed by gray hair.

Awaiting the outcome. I have no idea why the drape has a clear plastic insert.

After instructions in French by Paulita (Close on the sides and leave a little more on top) he happily went to work. The guy must have three hands because he was armed with a razor, brush and scissors. I left myself and my arteries in his hands and relaxed like I usually do when I'm in the barber chair. Then out came the straight razor. The guy expertly wielded the blade to trim the edges of my beard. At the end it was one of the best cuts I've had. We handed him a 50 euro bill. He had the next customer, obviously an acquaintance at least, go get change. The guy came back with two 20s and a 10. Paulita handed the stylist a 20 euro bill expecting change for a tip. OK, I thought, the guy will feign not having change so he'll take the 20. "No," he said, he didn't have change for that and took the 10 euro. Like most French business people, he didn't expect a tip, even for 100 percent.

I'd like to say you're in the hands of honorable merchants focused on your needs in France. We'll see if that holds true elsewhere.

Doggy bags and DUIs

If you've visited France over the years you've noticed some cultural changes. If you're coming here for the first time, you should be aware of what's  changed and what's stayed the same.

What's different:
 McDonald's has been here for years but Starbucks is a recent addition of  American cuisine. Neither is as good as in the U.S.

Salad is now served at the beginning of a meal. It was always reserved for after the main course and before the cheese and/or dessert.

A 2016 law said restaurants must provide doggy bags because restaurants threw away 7 million tons of food a year. One critic said the French would never do it because it seemed crude and "American." We asked for one when Paulita had a cold and couldn't finish her meal. The server seemed happy to oblige.

Plastic bags were outlawed in 2016. You must carry your own bag into a grocery (Super U, Intermarche, Casino) buy one there, or carry your purchase out in your hands.

More joggers and they're wearing luminescent clothing. People used to look askance at joggers like they were running from police. French drivers generally are courteous to pedestrians but still be alert at crossings.

We were walking. No driving involved here Monsieur Officer.

Speaking of police, France lowered its DUI limit to .05 a few years ago. And French cops do random roadside checks. If you blow a .025 to .04, or have a blood alcohol of .05 to .08 the penalty is a three-year license suspension and a 135 euro fine for the first offense. Above .08 in your blood, you face up to 2 years in prison, a 4,500 euro fine and three-year license suspension.

What's  the same::
Businesses close between noon and 2:00 so workers can spend time with family and friends at lunch. They work longer hours to make up for it. A friend said workers on her house finished lunch in 20 minutes but sat around to talk for another hour and 40 minutes to smoke cigarettes and talk when they could have gone back to work and gone home early.

Restaurants close after the lunch seating and reopen around 7 or later for dinner. However there are brasseries, bars and street food vendors (actually storefront stalls) that serve food. There's also are a emporter places selling pizza and other foods to go.

Always check beforehand whether an office is open. We found out that the tourism office in Cognac is closed Tuesday afternoons. No idea why that particular time.

Tipping at restaurants. Leave a one or two euro tip for good service if you want, but servers are paid a living wage, unlike in the U.S. They don't expect a tip but appreciate it. Don't  put the tip on your credit card; tipping is cash only. You can also compliment the owner or manager for exceptional food and service, or the chef if you see him/her, but don't  hunt them down.

You won't get coffee or tea until after dessert, unless you order the gourmand sampler, which gives you a small espresso with dessert.

You must go to the pharmacie (marked by green, often flashing, neon crosses) for any common health or medical need such as vitamins or Advil.

Buy bread daily.  The French don't usually have packaged slice bread that will keep for a week or longer.

And don't look for milk in the cooler. It's on a nonrefrigerated shelf. The ultra-high temperature (UHT) milk is heated to 275 degrees and sold in sterile cartons that don't need refrigeration. It can keep for six months and tastes fine.

Feel free to add to either category, or correct any error you see. Thanks!

Heard it was a good game

I was all set to watch New England lose. I had my peanuts, small can of Coke and satellite TV. The dogs we're house-sitting were nestled asleep in their beds. Just go to France Channel 9 and, voila!, there would be Super Bowl LII, I was told.


Instead, I got this:

I'm in France, rural France. It's midnight (we're six hours ahead of the U.S.) I'm not about to mess with our host's satellite hookups. There are no bars nearby and if there were they'd be showing highlights of the Six Nations Rugby Championship, not American football. I'm not a big NFL fan and I can barely sit still through an entire game, but after a month here I was looking forward to good old American sports TV. Inane conversations among broadcasters, unending replays and maybe a witty commercial or two  (Liked the NY Giants' play on Dirty Dancing).

It's not much to ask since we spend most days outdoors exercising the dogs, or reading books, visiting fantastic cities like Bordeaux, and having great meals.

The old city gate of Bordeaux.

The only TV we watch here are Netflix shows like The Outlander, Grace and Frankie and Designated Survivor and maybe some BBC and CNN news. Sometimes we go days without staring at the screen and haven't suffered withdrawal symptoms.

Goat-cheese salad.

The Super Bowl was the first test of no-TV life for me. No, I had no desire to watch the State of the Union. I can do this. We won't have a TV in our new home. French TV is pretty bad anyway, based on what I've seen and been told. We'll rely on tablet or computers to view selected shows.

But I would like to have seen the Eagles prove that Tom Brady, although a great player, was human.

Changes

Vibrac, France, Feb. 4, 2018

Our home for three weeks.

I'm standing at a window in an old stone and tile roof house looking out over a canal and farmland. It once was home to a lock keeper, who opened and closed heavy metal gates, lowering and raising the water level for boats to pass through on the Charente River. It's not my house. My wife, Paulita, and I are house-sitting for a British couple on holiday. One month ago we landed in Paris, not for a vacation, but to begin a life as ex-pats in France. 

We traveled often to France, where Paulita spent the summer before grad school as an au pair. Every few years we visited the family and she mentioned how nice it would be to move to France. I would nod and not give it serious thought. That changed two years ago when I turned 60. I loved my job as a reporter at The Columbus Dispatch and my colleagues. But I had vowed not to wait until 65 to enjoy the rest of my life. Neither my father nor his brothers saw 80 years old. I would retire on Dec. 22, 2017, the day before I turned 62 and became eligible for my company pension.

My desk at The Columbus Dispatch, where I spent
 the last 19 years of a 40-year journalism career.

I had thought retirement would involve a condo in the Columbus area and world travels. That was one option we discussed. We would be close to our three adult children, able to help them in person instead of consoling or counseling them over Skype or FaceTime. We also would be close to Grandview Heights, the small city where we lived just outside downtown Columbus. We loved walking the half mile to Grandview's main street full of restaurant, shops and the Grandview Grind where Paulita wrote several novels. Our children had attended the city school district where the total enrollment hovers around 1,000 students. France would put us 10 hours and 4,000 miles away from all of that. But if  we could leave with our children, now in their 20s, fairly secure in jobs and apartments, we'd take a shot at adventure.

Clockwise from me at the top: Tucker, Paulita, Spencer and Grace.

"So you're abandoning us," the youngest, Tucker said. With his dry wit it's sometimes difficult to tell whether he's joking. I assumed he wasn't. In a sense, he was correct. But our leaving might help them become more self-sufficient, we told ourselves. And we expected all of them to visit us in France. Tucker came around and said he would make a long visit this spring or summer. Grace, our oldest, loved our plan. A europhile herself, she has dreams of graduate school in Scotland. Our older son, Spencer, said it was cool that we were chasing our dream.

The housing market in Grandview was ridiculously hot last spring, but we didn't jump in until August. After one failed offer we closed on a second full price offer on Dec. 8. We had two days to remove the last items from the house. We pulled away at 11:45 a.m., 15 minutes before the new owners took possession. A healthy profit from the home sale means we won't need a mortgage in France, With that, and my 401(k) and pension converted into investments and Paulita continuing to teach her college English classes online, our bankers declared our France dream possible. A European health insurance policy would cost us less than $1,000 total.

Trying to look French.

After Christmas in Florida with the kids and Paulita's parents, we left Paris on Jan. 3, landing the next day. The first three days were spent on  a second honeymoon in Paris. I never tire of visiting that beautiful city. There's always something new o explore.

After Paris, we began the first of three house-sitting jobs for Brits who have re-invaded western France with their strong pound sterling. They were looking for people to care for their homes and, more importantly, their pets while they went on holiday.

Paulita with Toby, one of our charges.

With the house-sitting jobs and times spent at friend's homes we'll have paid for only two weeks at an Airbnb by mid-March, when we begin house-hunting in earnest. We've decided to rent for a year. That way we we'll have time to thoroughly vet properties and also give the dollar time to hopefully strengthen against the euro. And if we decide the expat life isn't for us, it will be easier to return home.

So stop back and see how we do for at least the next year. You'll read about house sits, French traffic, dining and social quirks (compared to our American quirks), the difference between bollocks and bullshit and my efforts to adapt to French culture and language.

À bientot,
Earl