To Sicily, by way of Girona

Barcelona boasts two airports, but really only one of them is in Barcelona.  The other is in Girona, about an hour and 15 minutes away by car.  We’re flying out of Girona to Sicily tomorrow morning.  Because we’ve never been to Girona—and we had heard it’s terrific—and because we generally need three hours to get out of the house even if we are 90% packed, we decided to drive down today and check it out.

Girona is a decent-sized city with—you guessed it—a medieval walled old city in the middle.  We got an inexpensive, clean room at the Hotel Condal just outside the old city walls, and arrived just in time for lunch.  But just too late to see the Arab Baths, which close at 2 pm every day—remember, we can’t get out of the house early.  No matter what.  We had a great lunch at a creperie—hard cider, enormous salads, savory and sweet crepes.  The dessert crepe with salted caramel, sautéed apples and toasted slivered almonds had just the right balance of sweet, tart, salt, fat, crisp, and gooey. 

Along the river, a Christmas market featuring local artisans is still in full swing; in Spain, January 5 is Three Kings Day, and it is even bigger than Christmas.  People are still doing their holiday shopping—the sales won’t begin until January 6. Apparently, January 5 is when the three wise men reached Bethlehem. I had no idea they were so late.  It’s a good thing Mary gave birth in that manger instead of a modern hospital, or she would have been kicked out after two days, and no one would have realized Jesus was such a special guy.  In fact, many parents in Spain are grumpy about the rise in Papa Noel’s (Santa Claus’s) popularity, because it means two sets of presents on two different days.  The kids count on it.  The pragmatic parents realize, at least, that if the kids get gifts on December 25, they have something to do for the endless vacation that follows.

So, after a day of unpacking, doing several loads of laundry, and repacking, we are off again.  How did we choose Sicily?  Well, it met our three basic criteria of:  1) not being too cold; 2) not being too expensive; and 3) being someplace we’ve always wanted to go.  We checked the Ryan Air website and found flights for 47 euros per person round trip.  For those of you who have not flown Ryan Air, it’s a real treat, beginning with the online ticket purchase.  By the time we added luggage fees, 40 euros in “passenger fee web check in,” a 40 euro “administration fee,” the fee for using a credit card, etc., we were paying 360 euros total.  But it’s still a total deal. 

We flew Ryan Air for the first time on our way back from Vigo, and let me tell you, it’s really something.  You have to calculate your luggage very precisely, because you can only bring one carry on bag—whether it’s a purse, a computer case, a tote, or a (rather small and strictly measured) suitcase.  You pay for checked luggage by the piece, and you have 15 and 20 kilo options.  If you pay up to 24 hours before you fly, a 15 kilo bag costs 15 euros per flight, or 30 euros round trip.  If you do not pay for it beforehand, and show up with it at the airport, it would cost more than double that—65 euros round trip.  If you book that same 15 kilo bag at home, before you fly, and then your bag weighs, say, 18 kilos when they weigh it at check in, you have to pay that same 35 extra euros plus a 30 euro fee for getting it wrong.  I think I have all of these fees right, but I’m not swearing on my first born.

Oh, and I forgot about the priority boarding fee—8 euros for each of us, round trip.  After my first trip on Ryan Air, I can seriously say that that 8 euros may be the best money I’ve ever spent.  There are no assigned seats on Ryan Air, and people start lining up at the gate WAY before it’s time to board.  If you are travelling with kids and, like us, unable to show up anywhere early, you absolutely need to fork over the priority boarding fee.  Once the flight begins boarding, all hell breaks loose, with people bum rushing and stashing their luggage in any open space they can find.  I have a friend who told me that the first time she flew Ryan Air—with her three small children—she did not know about this priority boarding business.  By the time they boarded the plane, there were no seats for them to all sit together.  And you know how people who do not want to help you when you’re in a bind simply won’t look you in the eye?  Well, that happened to her.  The flight attendant, witnessing her plight, whispered to her that she should just find a row with an empty seat, put one of her kids in it, and tell the person next to the child that the child had severe motion sickness.  The passenger would be out of that seat quick as a wink.  Then she’d have to repeat the process with others in the row, assuming they had not already overheard the prior conversation and moved voluntarily.

Don’t expect to get any rest on a Ryan Air flight either.  As soon as it’s safe to move around the cabin, the flight attendants begin to do laps of the center aisle, selling all kinds of things.  On our hour long flight from Vigo to Barcelona, we were offered hot food, packaged snacks, drinks, and lottery tickets (2 euros each or 6 for 10 euros).  We were given catalogues so that we could shop.  We were also given in-flight magazines, but these were collected again before landing.  You cannot even get a cup of tap water on Ryan Air.

I can almost remember the golden age of flying—I took my first flight in 1972, when I was 8 years old.  My sister Leslie, who was 12, and I flew to Minnesota to spend Christmas with our cousins and grandparents.  We dressed up.  The flight attendants—stewardesses back then—dressed up.  It felt special. It felt like we were going to a party.  On Ryan Air, it feels more like you’re taking the bus from Port Authority to Atlantic City.  I would not have been surprised if I had been given a roll of quarters and my own personal slot machine.  On second thought, I’d probably have to buy the quarters.

Photo of the Day

Weather vane in Girona

501 Spanish Verbs

I have a new bedside table book--the classic 501 Spanish Verbs.  I currently reside in a valley on the roller coaster that is the language learning process.  What I’ve realized in the last week is that I have focused on content in my reading and speaking, with little thought to verb tense.  There are roller coaster high point days, on which I feel as though the words come rushing out of my mouth in effortless paragraphs.  And then there are the low points, on which I stumble on simple requests, and question the correctness of the paragraphs I spouted the day before.

So my current trough prompted me to ask my Spanish teacher, Jorge, what I should do about my verb problem.  “Do I just need to memorize them?” I asked?  “Pretty much,” he responded, advising me to do conjugations in my head while cooking dinner, taking a shower, brushing my teeth. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun.

I have a good vocabulary, and know the meanings of many verbs.  But conjugate them in past, present, future, subjunctive?  Don’t hold your breath.  I have been barreling through conversations using any verb tense that comes to mind, and now I’m beginning to get some sense of what I must sound like.  It’s not pretty.  I don’t bother to discriminate between the two main past tenses.  I figure that as long as I am conveying that I am not talking about chowing down now, or in the future, I’m good.

I have heard a lot of Spanish spoken in the last eight years, and you can get pretty far this way.  It’s kind of like playing by ear, only it’s speaking by ear.  This is how children learn their mother tongue, after all.  The only difference between them and me is that they have supremely absorbent little sponges for brains, whereas mine has begun to resemble a dried up old walnut that is also likely premenopausal.  I can scarcely remember why I left one room to go to another, much less which verb to use.

Of the 501 verbs included in this new and improved edition—which also comes with a DVD and a CD—53 are labeled as the “essential 53 verbs.”  For each verb, there are 7 simple and 7 compound tenses.  I figure I can whittle that down to ten or maybe even 7 total.  And by the end of my time here, I can probably memorize those.  To my surprise, Alec said he’d like to join me.  Pretty romantic, no?  Even more than me, Alec has learned Spanish by ear.  Only his ear is better than mine.

The question of the night is—should I bring the enormous verb tome to Sicily?  Probably not.

P.S. I've decided to eliminate the Human Highlighter Suit Tally.  The shirt's kind of stained, and Milo doesn't wear it as much now that it's mucky.  He did get a Victor Valdez goalie jersey for Christmas, but let's see how it goes before we start another tally.

Photo of the Day

Oranges growing in Barcelona, on December 28!

The Vigo Routine

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

By Day 3, we have established our Vigo routine:

1.     Sleep as late as possible.

2.     Get up, eat some breakfast, and putter around for several hours.  I honestly cannot account for what happens between 10 am and 2 pm.

3.     Suddenly it’s 2 o’clock, so you go out with the kids to get some fresh air and a bite—just long enough to say you’ve been out.

4.     Return home in time to receive relatives, and eat some more.

5.     Stay up late talking and snacking.

6.     Go to bed and repeat.

Yesterday, I decided to make a chocolate mousse for dessert.  Raquel had all the ingredients, and I thought it would be a nice change from turron.  The only problem was that there was no electric mixer.  I enlisted Alec and Nick to beat the egg whites, but they still fell a little short of ideal.  Plus, since I had started so late, I wasn’t sure if it would have enough time in the fridge to set up.  Still, it was Julia Child’s recipe—which I highly recommend—so I crossed my fingers.

Our brief outing was to downtown Vigo.  Although the air had a real bite to it, flowers bloomed everywhere—pansies, cyclamen, birds of paradise, and the most amazing camellias.  We walked around, got some ice, and came home just as Raquel’s brother Suso (I’m sure I am spelling this wrong) and his family were arriving.  Raquel and Mila had cooked up a huge batch of giant prawns as an appetizer, and then we had fresh tagliatelle with a sauce of tomatoes, cheese, and more shrimp.  We were supposed to eat the scallops, but no one had remembered to defrost them, so they’re still there. The mousse had not set up completely, but Raquel insisted we serve it anyway, in bowls.  Every last drop got lapped up, even though our guests had also brought pastries from a local bakery—tiny tarts of cream, strawberries, apple, chocolate.  And a dessert wine that tasted like liquid raisins. 

Mila got struck by an awful flu, which caused her to have to lie down as soon as the meal was served—she used her last ounce of strength to feed us.  It turns out that Gena, who had not planned to come that day, got the very same illness.  We did a quick rejiggering of the sleeping arrangements because Mila—who had given up her apartment for all of us and had been staying with a friend—was too sick to go home.  Mila slept with Raquel, C.C. slept with me, Myron slept in C.C.’s bed, and Nick took up his customary post on the couch.  We managed.  C.C. is bigger than Milo, but a much less active sleeper.

I will have to run around the block a few times before we embark for Sicily and start eating pasta and cannolis.

Photos of the Day

Fora in Vigo, the pastry tray, and.... Uncle Suso with the kids

Christmas

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Mercifully, the kids slept until 8:30 on Christmas morning, then had to endure the adults’ sluggishness and coffee-making while they (the kids) sniffed anxiously around the “stockings” and piles of gifts.  I say “stockings” because we did not bring ours from New York (you’d think that there would have been room in one of those 21 boxes, no?) and I never thought about getting any here.  So Raquel—in between cooking an enormous meal for nine—whipped one up for Milo, and C.C. used her boots.  Pretty soon we were surrounded by a sea of gift wrap, ripped up boxes and small plastic parts.  The adults were quickly enlisted to install batteries and assemble various toys, and the kids seemed happy with their haul.

Christmas morning is always a little overwhelming for the kids—not that they get SO much stuff, but still they don’t quite know what to play with first.  It takes awhile for everything to sink in.

The kitchen is pretty much off limits when Raquel and her sisters are cooking.  First off, it’s smoky and freezing.  Gena and Mila smoke, but they courteously confine themselves to the kitchen, and open a window so that most of the smoke escapes.  But really they have their work all planned, and extra sets of hands just muck up the works.  Christmas dinner in Galicia means cocido.  Everyone makes it, and everyone eats it at home.  Then they go visiting.  Gena had brought an enormous pot for the dish—it reminded me of my father’s clam chowder pot.  It takes several hours to cook the cocido, so you have to start pretty early.

To make cocido, you start with a big pot of water that you boil, and then add a lot of meat—ribs, a whole chicken, slabs of beef, various unidentifiable pieces of pig, and chorizo.  After this cooks for awhile, you add a whole bunch of whole, peeled potatoes—big ones.  Then you add the grelos.  There is no English translation for grelos—they are some kind of dark, leafy green, earthy and slightly bitter.  Some recipes call for garbanzos also, but Raquel says they are undigestable, so she leaves them out. 

When it’s all done, you scoop out all of the porky meat and put it on one plate.  On another you put the beef and chicken.  You put the grelos in one bowl and the potatoes in another.  The broth that’s left in the pot is saved for making caldo, or soup, another day.

Everyone sits around the table and takes some potatoes and grelos, and whatever meat they want.  Everything has been spiced up a bit with the paprika that has seeped out of the chorizo.  Milo showed me that they tend to put some chorizo between chunks of bread and eat it that way.  It was hearty, filling, delicious.  Not so different from something my Polish relatives would have eaten.  Every culture has its boiled meat, I guess. Barlow says that it is when a Galician is eating cocido that he is most likely to experience morriña.  I think everyone was simply too stuffed after the meal to burst into song; no one could move for awhile after Christmas dinner.

Later, at about 6, two of Raquel’s nieces and their families came to visit; they had already had their own cocido at home.  The apartment is very comfortable even with 7 of us living in it, but at our peak on Christmas Day we were 18, plus a beagle puppy.  Cramped, but still fun.  The kids played in one room, and small groups clustered in the kitchen, in the living area, around the dining table.  It’s not all my family, but it felt like Christmas all the same.

At some point after everyone left, we hauled out the cheeses and jamon again, some cava, and a big salad that had been made two days before but never eaten.  I realized as I drifted off to sleep that I had not left the house for at least 30 hours.  It felt good.

Photos of the Day

C.C.'s "stockings," and the cocido

Noche Buena

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

When I told people in Barcelona that we were going to Galicia for Christmas, they replied—to a person—“Galicia is beautiful, and the food is spectacular.  But it’s cold!”  They are right.  After a lazy morning of hanging around in our pajamas, we went for a late lunch across the street—croquettes, asparagus baked with cheese and jamon, mushrooms in shrimp sauce, and jamon with manchego—then to Castro Park, which provides an amazing view of the sea and has a terrific playground.  By the time we got there, the sun had begun to set and, even with gloves and a hat, I had to keep moving.  I suppose I’ve adapted a little too easily to Barcelona’s mild climate.

As for the food, where do I start?  Galicia is well-known for the quality and variety of its local seafood.  There are four kinds of lobsters, for example.  Lubina, a lovely white fish, starred in the feast.  Raquel and Mila left the house around noon to go to the Corte Ingles for the freshest fish and other provisions.  The apartment was already so full of food that the unheated laundry room had been converted into an extra cold room.  If you opened the door, you would trip over bowls of salad, bags of fruit, and lord knows what else.  Still, they asked us several times before leaving:  “Tell us now what else you want, because the stores will not be open until Monday!”  Two whole days!?!  We have enough provisions for 10 people for a week, easy.

Gena, another of Raquel’s six sisters, had arrived at the house by the time we returned from the park, and the three sisters were busy in the kitchen. The two lubinas were prepped for cooking, in a pan, covered in kosher salt (see below).  I do not know what “lubina” is in English, but it’s delicious.  One would never start Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) dinner before 9:30 pm; it’s simply not done.  Raquel was worried that we’d be done before the 10 o’clock news, and that would be scandalous.  Still, she did allow us to begin with appetizers at about 9 pm.  We started with fried calamari, served simply with lemon and salt, more cheeses from France, and from Spain, and—of course—jamon.  Then we moved to the table for thick slabs of fresh foie gras, apples sautéed in butter, and a lovely sauterne.  The lubina followed, so simple and so delicious, accompanied by roasted vegetables.  For dessert, a fresh fruit salad, and platters of turron,—xixona, Alicante, and yemado—figs stuffed with walnuts, marzipan, and polverones (powdery cookies made from almonds).  All of the Christmas pastries have almonds as their base.

We finally got the kids to bed around midnight, threatening that Santa passes by the  houses where the children are still awake.  And then Raquel, Mila, and Gena began to sing Galician folk songs, beautiful old melodies fuelled by nostalgia and wine.  They tried to explain the concept of morriña to us which, apparently, is the feeling these songs evoke.  From what I could tell, it’s something like homesickness.  In a strange coincidental twist, when I went to bed, I read a little, as I always do.  As it happens, one of the books I am currently reading is called Everything but the squeal: Eating the whole hog in northern Spain, by John Barlow.  I bought it because of my jamon obsession and, even though it’s set in northern Spain as opposed to the south, where Barcelona sits, I thought it would give me some insight.  I did not know when I ordered it that it takes place in Galicia.  And when I opened the book to the page where I had left off and started reading, I soon came to a passage about the exact same word—morriña.  Barlow defines it as “a feeling that is said to be stronger and more complex than mere homesickness; ‘home-yearning,’ perhaps, although many Galicians insist that there is simply no adequate translation of morriña.”

This is the first time in many years that Raquel and Myron have spent Christmas in Spain; they usually come in January, and we are usually with them at their house in Pawling on Christmas Eve.  Invariably, at some late hour, which means it is 6 hours later in Spain, the phone rings in Pawling and it’s Raquel’s sisters on the line, whooping it up.  Well, this year we are all together for the whooping, and at 2 am I finally said “uncle” and went to bed.  Apparently Gena and Mila were up talking in the kitchen until 5.  I think there are siestas in all of our futures.

Photos of the Day

Top: Castro Park; and bottom 3: the lubina before cooking, being served, and after

To Vigo

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

We have way too much stuff with us for a four day trip.  But it’s Christmas and, even though most of the gifts we are bringing are for our kids—which means they will come right back with us—we wanted them to be able to open them on Christmas Day.  We are planning a six week summer trip without a car, and I am already concerned about it because it seems impossible for us to travel light.

We are en route to Vigo, the city in Galicia where Alec’s Dad, Myron, and stepmother, Raquel, spend several months a year.  Alec’s brother Nick will be there, too, and at least some of Raquel’s many sisters.  Galicia is in the northwest of Spain, a beautiful part of the country that is famous for its amazing seafood.  Raquel grew up in nearby Santiago, a gorgeous city that is the third most visited city by Christian pilgrims.  Jerusalem and Rome are the first two.  It was summer last time we were there, and the streets were full of people with backpacks and walking sticks who had travelled great distances.

I feel fortunate to have family so close by, and to be able to spend the holiday with them.  Raquel is a fantastic cook, so we are sure to eat well.

This morning, I took the kids to say Happy Holidays and goodbye to Manuel, who spends the spring semester in Los Angeles.  We met earlier this week and made a minor breakthrough in my own work.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and holding myself back from cooking up a project prematurely.   But I think I’m on to something now, and I am excited to move in a new direction when I get back from our travels. 

On the way to my office we mailed the kids’ letter to Santa Claus.  They made a very long list—C.C. writing her own piece and Milo dictating his part to me.  I told them they couldn’t just send a list without convincing Santa that they had been good, so C.C. asked if I could help them write “a persuasive paragraph.”  I like that they still believe in Santa Claus.  We’ve watched the Grinch and The Year Without a Santa Claus this week.  I bought them on iTunes because I couldn’t imagine them growing up without knowing who the Heat Miser is.

When Myron picked us up at the airport he said, “Wow—you guys don’t have too much stuff this time!”  Which tells you something about our reputation.  Raquel’s sister, Mila, was there, along with her son Bolivar and his son Jorge, who is 5.  The kids started playing together immediately like kids do.  We ate salad, delicious jamon, cheeses and foie gras that Mila had brought from Paris, where she lives.  And turron, of course.  At some point in the evening, Myron left for awhile and returned with a box of gorgeous scallops (see photo below).  I’m not sure where he got them, but I’m looking forward to eating them.  We will not starve here.

Photos of the Day

The scallops, and C.C. and Milo with their cousin Jorge

Christmas Prep

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

I am turning into my mother.  When we were kids, waking our parents early and shooing them as best we could into the living room to open presents, it seemed like an eternity before we could start.  My Dad had to have his coffee.  We would bring the babka I had made into the living room so that there would be something to put in our stomachs during the endless unwrapping.  In our tradition, the youngest person had to fetch the presents from under the tree and deliver them to the correct recipients.  Invariably, Jody—the youngest—would come across gifts that had no tag, no name.  “Who does this go to?” she would ask the assembled.  My mother would furrow her brow and bite her lip, and then give it her best guess.  As often as not, she was wrong.  And then, after everything had been opened, she would study the piles of boxes and get that same thinking look on her face.  “Wait a minute,” she’d say and then dash off to another room, returning with a box or bag she had forgotten.   Sometimes she found things under beds or in closets in the middle of summer; Christmas could be a year-round holiday in our house.

Tonight, after a long day of running around the city doing last minute shopping and errands in the drizzle, I set myself up to wrap gifts on the living room floor.  If memory served, I had stashed most of the booty on the top shelf of my closet.  I stood on a chair, dug through my sweaters, and threw the loot I found down onto the bed. Many of the shops here in Barcelona wrap gifts, and as I took everything out and began to sort it into C.C. and Milo piles, I realized that I had not marked any of the wrapped gifts.  How could I have possibly thought I’d remember what was inside just by looking at the shape of the box?  I began peeling off tape and peeking inside, then having to repair the damaged wrap jobs.  And then, after I thought I had finished, I felt certain that I did not have everything.  So I began a hunt through closets and drawers, finding bags tucked here and there.  It all felt a little too familiar for comfort.

While I wrapped, I began to roll out another batch of cookies—I had made the dough yesterday and refrigerated it.   Cardamom orange sugar cookies.   I thought I’d give some out tomorrow, and bring the rest to Vigo.  They got great reviews, although several reviewers complained about the sticky dough.  Others shared strategies for dealing with it (roll it between two sheets of floured parchment paper).  I am a veteran baker and, if I do say so myself, I am particularly good with dough.  But this stuff was a nightmare.  I managed to roll and cut them, but when they baked, they spread out and puffed up like those fat graffiti letters from the 70s.  Not pretty enough to give away.  But delicious!  Given the late hour, and that there was no longer any urgency, I decided I couldn’t deal with the laborious process of rolling and cutting and baking.  So I stuck the rest of the dough in the freezer and took a bath.

Photos of the Day

Holiday window in Barcelona, and C.C.'s newly toothless smile

The Shortest Day

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

When I was growing up, my father always marked the winter solstice.  Only he didn’t call it the solstice and he certainly would not have said he was “marking” it.  He would sit at our kitchen table, a cup of milky-sweet coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other and say to my sisters and me, “Well, girls, the days are starting to get longer now.  Pretty soon we’ll be headed to the beach.”  Never mind that, at December’s end, we had barely tiptoed to the edge of winter in New Jersey; the worst was yet to come.  Never mind that a glorious fall day in November with exactly the same amount of daylight as a frigid, slushy one in February will win hands down every time.

When my acupuncturist, Ferran (yes, you read that right, but that’s another story for another day) sent out an invitation to a solstice talk and meditation he was leading, I decided to go.  What drew me?  I like ritual.  I think many of us, and particularly those of us who live in cities, have become disconnected from the earth.  And I like Ferran, so I wanted to see what he tricks he had up his sleeve.  First, I checked to make sure Alec didn’t have something else planned, and I asked if he’d like to join me.  He responded that he’d probably be better off not going himself.  I think he was afraid he might snicker during the festivities.

It rained all day—a cold, grey, constant drizzle—the kind of day that makes you want to get home at the end of the day and stay there.  But I did not feel even a twinge of my usual inertia, so I set off for downtown at about 7:45. When I arrived, people had started to gather in the yoga room of the acupuncture clinic.  Ferran—who is young and dynamic, a Catalan who studied acupuncture in the US—greeted everyone warmly as they entered.  I took a seat near the back.  Ferran poured himself some tea and started talking about how auspicious the solstice is, about the earth’s cycle and the opportunity it provides for us to look inside ourselves and make sure we are living the lives we want to live.  Who knows what the sun has to do with it, but it’s a message I sure need to hear every now and again.

Today’s solstice is supposed to be especially potent—for the first time in 372 years it coincides with a lunar eclipse; two cycles at the same time.  Because it’s the shortest day, the winter solstice is thought of as the rebirth of the sun, a time of movement from darkness into light.  As it did when I was a kid, the day has dual significance for me.  On the one hand, I am grateful for the turn that marks the gradual lengthening of the day; I love the long days of summer.  On the other hand, I revel in the cocooning that winter enables—taking hot baths, roasting root vegetables, braising meats, burrowing into flannel sheets.

Ferran had asked everyone to bring a small candle.  He put the lights out, we lit the candles, and everyone got quiet.  Whether you believe in this kind of hocus pocus or not, a room full of people thinking kind and peaceful thoughts can generate some powerful energy.  I’ve felt it in yoga classes, on meditation retreats, in places of worship.  In fact, it reminded me of the Christmas Eve candlelight services of my youth.  Once I was old enough, I often walked home from church alone on those nights, to hold on to large silence for a little while longer.

Photo of the Day

Turrones and Toes

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

If you sponsored a contest and asked all of the world’s cities to dress up in their holiday finest, I’m pretty sure Barcelona would win, at least if I had a say in the judging.  The lights are amazing—every main avenue is different, with row after row of colourful decorations strung from one side of the street to each other.  The branches of the trees along the Rambla are individually outlined in white lights.  The Gran Via has lights strung between the street lamps that look like colourful snowflakes, and the Rambla Catalunya has huge white snowflake-y circles. I will have to get out after dark to take some pictures, but in the meantime you will just have to trust me.

Like most places, Barcelona also has its own holiday food traditions.  One of them had me quite confused for awhile.  You may remember that I got hooked on orxata this fall, and I found two authentic places—El Tio Che on Rambla de Poblenou and Sirvent/Parlament on Balmes right near the Provenca FGC stop—that I passed often enough to pretty much guarantee myself a fix whenever I needed it.

Then one day, sometime last month, I headed out for a walk along the Rambla de Poblenou, intent on getting an orxata on the way, and El Tio Che was closed.  Now, finding businesses closed is an every day occurrence in Barcelona.  Many close for the afternoon siesta, but the siesta hours vary from business to business.  I figured that’s what had happened.  The next day, I found myself close enough to Sirvent to make a detour and satisfy my craving.  Also closed.  Within the same week I passed Sirvent a few other times, on different days and at different hours.  Still closed, and no sign outside explaining the situation.  I feared that it had closed for good.

I had given up hope when, one day last week, I noticed that the metal grating of Sirvent had been raised.  I rushed across the street only to find a handwritten sign on the door stating that the store closed from 11:45 – 1:30 every day.  I looked at my watch—noon.  I vowed to return the next day during opening hours and breathed a sigh of relief when I did, and the door yielded to my push.  I walked up to the counter and ordered an orxata—large, to go.  “No hay,” (There isn’t any) replied the counterwoman.  I looked around.  The tubs in the ice cream freezer had been replaced with marrons glaces, sugared almonds and pine nuts.  The counters were piled high with foil-wrapped bricks of chocolate and almonds, a sugary Fort Knox.  But everything else was the same.

“Will the orxata be back?” I asked, worried.

“Si, en abril,” she responded.  In April.  I counted on my fingers—four

It turns out that orxata is a warm weather drink.  Who knew? Even though it is not technically tied to the land as are other foods that are so much better when eaten in season, it has a time nonetheless.  I don’t really like having my access to orxata restricted, but I guess I can respect it.  And it seems that all of the orxaterias transform themselves into turronerias when the weather turns.

Turron is a class of sweets traditionally enjoyed during the holidays.  You can find turron during the rest of the year, just as you can find mass-produced orxata year round in the supermarket, but artisanal turrones are produced only in the winter.  And they are the best. Yesterday, our new friends Alex and Monica brought two kinds of turron from Sirvent to our house for dessert—they live only a couple of blocks away from the shop.  The “xixona” variety is my favorite—it’s like luxury crunchy almond butter, but sweeter and more dense.  It comes in a soft brick, and you slice it with a butter knife.  “Alicante” is harder and more brittle, and has larger chunks of almond inside.  You bang it with something hard to break off bite-sized pieces.  I prefer xixona, but honestly I like them both.

This morning I stopped off at Sirvent to pick up some turrones to bring to Myron and Raquel in Vigo for Christmas.  Then I walked to Via Laietana to meet Isabel, the foot analyst I met at the Barcelona Women’s Network morning coffee hour.  She had asked to practice on me.  I am trying to use my time here in Barcelona to be more open to new experiences, and I figured getting my feet analyzed definitely fit into that basket.  Isabel studies something called the Grinberg method, a form of alternative body work in which the practitioner “reads” the client’s feet.  If felt a little bit like palmistry, only more clinical and lower down.

The space in which Isabel practices is quiet and bright and looks out onto the awesome Music Palace.  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, she asked me to take off my socks and shoes and to hop up on the examining table.  I did, apologizing for the sorry state of my feet.  On a good day, my heels are cracked and dry, my toes calloused.  But it’s also been nearly two months since my last pedicure—no one should have to be touching my tootsies.  At least they were clean.

Isabel started with my right foot—my active foot, since I’m right handed.  She felt the callouses, explored the lines, furrowed her brow and started to ask me questions.  Some of them were right on:  “Are you quite tight in your hips?”  “Do you tend to be very driven and need to get things done?”  Others, less so:  “Do you lose your temper easily?”  Mostly, I thought her questions and ideas were quite accurate.  At the end of the reading, she worked on my feet and I felt deeply relaxed.  Maybe it just felt good to lie down.  Or maybe Grinberg, and Isabel, are on to something.

Photos of the Day

Sirvent's turrones, Isabel and my feet and (bottom) xixona (left) and alicante (right)

Cooking Frenzy!

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

As Christmas approaches, the market stalls have begun to overflow with special ingredients and holiday treats.  And yesterday, it was jammed.  Everyone must be preparing to do their holiday baking and cooking.  The kiosk where we buy nuts, dried fruits, and spices is positively bursting with candied fruits, cocoa powder, and turrones. 

We had a lot to buy yesterday because we had invited two other families for Sunday lunch.  After shopping, we spent a few hours in the Parc Laberint—my favorite Barcelona park, which contains a real laberinth of 12 foot hedges—with Lisa, Jaume and their kids. 

Alec then cooked us a market dinner of unbelievably sweet little clams and gambas a la plancha (see photo below).  A woman standing next to Alec at the fish stall had tipped him off about the clams (berberechos), and she was right.  She told him to soak them for an hour in cold, salted water, and then steam them in nothing but water.  No wine, no spices, no olive oil after cooking.  They were fantastic.  Tiny and sweet and tasting of the sea.

I had been reading Thomas Keller’s cookbook Ad Hoc At Home, a gift from Jody and Matt, and decided it was time we dug deeper into it.  AHAH is Keller’s “casual” cookbook—I put casual in quotes because nothing Keller does is truly casual.  Even the most seemingly simple recipes require absolute precision.  Whenever I cook from this book I have a funny feeling that Keller is looking over my shoulder, scrutinizing my work.  And frowning.  But the thing is, the food is really good.  Top notch.

So we decided to cook a curried cauliflower soup, fried chicken, (which we had made before), and a salad of green beans, walnuts, potatoes, and radishes with a sherry vinaigrette.  But the mushrooms in the market also looked good, and we feared that the season could end any week.  So we made sautéed mushrooms with jamon on toasts with aliolli.  And since we would make potatoes for the kids, why not also make patatas bravas as a starter for the adults?  And because I’d promised the kids we would make cut out cookies, we made some of those as well—Christmas trees with red and green sprinkles.  Oh, and some pecans slow roasted with honey and sea salt, because I always make roasted nuts at this time of year.

All of which meant we had a lot of cooking to do.  After our market dinner, I made most of the soup, the cookie dough, and the nuts.  I turned in early because my throat had begun to feel scratchy, and Alec stayed up until the wee hours cooking carrots for the kids, brining the chicken and cleaning the mushrooms.  After several hours more cooking in the morning—it’s a good thing lunch here means 2 pm—we had a really nice feast.  Given that we did not have a thermometer to gauge the oil temperature, and that Alec did not put the chicken directly into the oil after dredging it, the chicken was not Keller-perfect.  But it was really good.

I also recommend the soup recipe, which you’ll find below. Keller recommends topping it with fried beet chips and homemade croutons, but I served it with just a few chives snipped on top.  I also added quite a bit more curry and salt after it was completely cooked.  I found that with only ¼ teaspoon of curry powder, the flavor was a bit too bland.  For curry, I used half regular and half hot, purchased at Fairway last weekend by Alec.

Cream of Cauliflower Soup (adapted from Thomas Keller)

2 heads cauliflower (4 – 5 pounds total)

4 T. unsalted butter

¾ cup coarsely chopped onion

¾ cup coarsely chopped leeks (white and light green parts)

¼ tsp. yellow curry powder

kosher salt

2 cups milk

2 cups heavy cream

2 cups water

Coarsely chop cauliflower and stems (but not core) into 1 inch pieces.  You need 8 cups.

Melt 3 T. of the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.  Add the onion, leeks, curry and chopped cauliflower, season with 2 tsp. salt, partially cover, and cook stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are almost tender, about 20 minutes. 

Pour in the milk, cream, and water, increase the heat to medium-high, and bring to a simmer.  Simmer for 30 minutes, skimming off the foam from time to time.

Puree the soup in a blender or food processor (I used a stick blender in the pot, which worked just fine) until smooth and velvety.  Taste for salt and curry and adjust accordingly.

Photos of the Day

Top 4 photos:  Shopping at the market (photo credits John Green); Parc Laberint; berberechos and gambas

A Catalan Christmas

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

I think it’s high time y’all learned about Christmas in Catalunya.  I can tell you about it, but I cannot explain it fully.  Poop plays a pretty big role in the holidays here; in fact, it’s ubiquitous.  First off, it’s quite common to have a crèche as part of one’s holiday decorations, a nativity scene that includes all of the usual suspects—kings, shepherds, wise men, the whole nine.  But here in Catalunya, the scene also contains a special guest—the caganer.  Caganer basically means “pooper” in catalan.  Traditionally, the caganer is a figure of a peasant who crouches, pants down, somewhere in the scene, a big duty right under his butt (all of the traditional caganers I’ve seen are male).  As far as I’ve been able to gather, the caganer brings good luck.  Why poop?  Well, given that the traditional ones are farmers, it has something to do with the cycle of life—eating what comes from the earth and then the waste returning to the earth.

The plaza in front of Barcelona’s town hall is home to a very large crèche—everyone says you have to go and see it.  When John and I went the other day, a tinny version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” warbled from a set of ancient speakers.  In 2005,  controversy about the appropriateness of the caganer caused it to be ousted from the city nativity scene—Barcelona had recently launched a campaign against public defecation and urination, and I guess having the caganer there in the city hall plaza seemed a bit hypocritical.  Many Catalans viewed his removal as an affront to Catalan traditions, and a “Save the Caganer” campaign was launched, resulting in the return of the caganer in 2006.  I walked around the nativity scene in order to find him and, sure enough there he was (see photo below).

John and I walked from the plaza to the Christmas market in front of the cathedral.  Vendors there sell fresh greens and poinsettas, nativity scene components, and crafts.  If you have a crèche at home, you are likely to buy the pieces individually rather than an entire set.  This allows you to pick out the specific Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, etc. that you want.  And, of course, the caganer.

Entire kiosks in the market sell nothing but caganers, and these days you can buy not only the traditional peasants, but also figurines of famous people assuming the traditional caganer pose.  “Look!” I said to John who, in another lifetime, went to seminary, “you can buy a pooping Pope!”  “Where?” he asked.  “Right between Hilary Clinton and Sarkozy,” I replied, pointing.  He declined.  We found Obama, Spiderman, the Dalai Lama, and several star soccer players.  See the photo of Queen Elizabeth, below; those things that look like chocolate donuts under her butt are poop.

The origins of the caganer, and of the practice of placing him in the nativity scene, are unclear.  Some say it represents fertilization of the earth.  Others say that Jesus is God manifest in human form, and there’s nothing like a little shit to remind us all of our humanity.  Yet another interpretation maintains that it’s about equality—no matter what your race, color, or creed—you poop just like everyone else.

The second important poop-related Christmas tradition is the Caga Tio, which means “poop log.”  These little oddities are logs dressed up with faces and hats (see the display of them at the market, below).   Starting December 8 and until Christmas, the children of the house are supposed to take care of the caga tio, covering it with a blanket each night and giving it something to eat each day.  When you buy one, you also get a stick and, on Christmas Day, the children beat the log with the stick while singing the following song:

caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. caga tió!"

poop log, poop turrón, hazelnuts and cottage cheese, if you don't poop well, I'll hit you with a stick, poop log!

giving log, give us treats, give us sweets! if you don't want to give, I'll hit you with a stick, give it up!

An alternate version goes something like this:

caga tió, tió de Nadal, no caguis arengades, que són massa salades caga torrons que són més bons!"

poop log, log of Christmas, don't poop herrings, which are too salty, poop turrón which is much better!

log, log, giving log, don't give us herrings, they are too salty, give us treats, give us sweets!

The stick-beating is supposed to get the log to poop out presents.  The CT does not poop out large presents (those are brought either by the wise men or by Papa Noel), but rather nuts, candies, sometimes dried figs.  The denouement happens when the Caga Tio poops out a salt herring, a head of garlic, an onion or "urinates".   I guess it’s something like the grand finale at the July 4 fireworks.

Milo checked our Caga Tio this morning just to make sure there weren’t any gifts yet.  There were not.

We asked a Catalan friend about the proliferation of poop here at holidy time; she just shrugged and said, “Well, Catalans are a rather scatological bunch.” In fact, Wikipedia tells us that one popular Catalan phrase before eating says "menja bé, caga fort i no tinguis por a la mort!" (Eat well, shit strong and don't be afraid of death!).  Indeed.

I swear to you that every word of this entry is true; I could not make this up.  And, if you promise to care for and then beat you Caga Tio and sing to it on Christmas Day, I’ll express mail you one so that you don’t miss out on the fun.

PS--the photos below are courtesy of John Green

Photos of the Day

Good Friends and Persimmons

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Our friend John Green arrived this morning from frozen New York City.  You know someone is a good friend when they have only two nights to spend in Barcelona and they opt to spend one of them going to your children’s holiday concert.  Rumor has it that last year’s concert started way late and ran more than three hours.  But there is a new music teacher this year, and we were promised that it wouldn’t go longer than an hour and a half.  Still, I call this loyalty.

I figured the least I could do is feed him well before and after.  Last night I whipped up a tortilla and my first experiment with the persimmons—some lemon-glazed persimmon bars.  I had also gone to the market to buy a few good cheeses, membrillo and some quality jamon.  A green salad, and dinner prep was done.

Alec’s reaction to my declaration that I intended to embark on a persimmon adventure was less than excited.  His description of the fruit?  Mushy, bland and viscous.  I bought some at the market—they are called palo santos here—but they did not look exactly like the ones I’ve seen in New York.  I did a bit of research and found that there are two kinds of persimmon—fujis and hachiyas.  Fujis are the squat, harder variety that I’d seen before coming here.  Hachiyas have a more elongated shape and thin-skinned; when ripe they seem almost to glow from the inside.  The persimmons I’ve found here are hachiyas.  They are very soft, and very sweet.    When I got mine home, I opened one up and scooped some out—very soft and very sweet.  Not my favorite fruit.

So I searched around for recipes, and found the persimmon bar one on Epicurious, rated four forks.  You scoop out the persimmon pulp and press it through a strainer, then mix it with flour, egg, sugar, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon, and finely chopped dates and nuts.  After you bake that part and let it cool, you make a simple glaze of lemon juice and zest, and confectioner’s sugar and spread it over the top.  The result?  Really tasty, but the persimmon flavor doesn’t really jump out at you.  The color, combined with the spices and nuts, made Alec think pumpkin more than persimmon.   I’d make them again, but I also want to do some more experimenting while they’re still around.  I’ve passed a few trees that are leafless and heavy with ripe fruit.

And the kids’ concert was lovely—I will post videos and photos soon.  I got C.C. to wear a dress by telling her it was a tunic, just like the ones knights wear.  Milo wore real shoes, not sneakers.  And their renditions of Jingle Bells (Milo) and a Spanish lullaby (C.C.) were really sweet.  John snoozed in the audience, and the concert was over in under an hour, which I think must be some kind of record.  We stopped at Foix—a fabulous bakery in Sarria—on the way home for some baguette, pastry, and a brioche for the morning.  Sat around the table talking and eating for a long time, catching up with a good friend.

Photos of the Day

Persimmons on a tree in France, and at our local market

Santa comes early

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

The first part of our drive to the kids’ school is a long, straight shot up Balmes, to the Avinguda Tibidabo, then a left onto the Ronda de Dalt, from which you get a nice view down to the rest of the city.   Looking out his window this morning, Milo shouted, “Mama!  I see Daddy’s airplane!”  “Really?” I said.  “How do you know it’s his?”  “Because I saw him inside it,” he replied.  Of course.

So Alec arrived back this morning, his suitcase loaded with booty from his trip to New York.  What did he bring back?  Crushed red pepper, aleppo pepper (my sister, Jody got me hooked on it about a year ago and I use it all the time—if you have not tried it, you must), chocolate chips, maple syrup.  Deodorant, my favorite SPF 50 moisturizer that I cannot find here, and the alternatives cost a bloody fortune.  The toy baryonyx and maiosaura (with nest) that C.C. wants for Christmas.  A book on the Mondragon cooperative, and a copy of the Frankie’s Spuntino cookbook (an indulgence, I know, but I could not resist). You’d think we lived in the middle of a desert. 

I was hit by a strange stomach thing yesterday so worked from home all day today, caught up on email, napped, and dove into the new books.  I’ve eaten nothing but brioche toast since yesterday noon, and the everything bagel Alec brought me from New York.  I don’t eat a ton of bagels, even when I’m in New York, but there’s nothing quite like it.  A taste of home.  There is still harissa soup in the fridge, so I think I will test myself with that for dinner.  I’m hungry.

Photo of the Day

Barcelona dresses up for the holidays!

PS--Milo's socks

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Note that in Milo's goalie picture, he's wearing his human highlighter socks.  He refused to wear the ones that go with his uniform.  I figured that since he is the goalie, it'd be okay for him to have some distinctive socks.  Pink lives on!

Photos of the Day

Milo the portero, and the view from where we parked at school this morning

Soccer and Soup

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Early on Saturday, Alec left for a few days in the states, so we’ve been a threesome since. Milo played his first ever soccer game on Saturday morning, which Alec was disappointed to miss. His team is part of what they call the mini-champions league, and all of the teams are named after pro teams. Somehow Milo’s team got to be Barça.




It was a gorgeous day—fall-feeling, and the field full of 6-year olds was impossibly cute. Milo is the starting portero, or goalie, mostly I think because he is the only kid who regularly goes to soccer class twice a week. He has completely embraced the role, which is kind of interesting because most kids his age would rather score goals than anything else. He now wants a Victor Valdez jersey for Christmas. Whenever one of the other kids scored, he’d run back the length of the field to high-five Milo and they’d all hug and cheer. I had trouble keeping score—the coach told me the final score was 6 – 6, but Milo swore they won 11 – 8. I guess it doesn’t really matter—they had a great time.



We spent the rest of the afternoon trekking around for shoes and some clothing items suitable for wearing to holiday concerts and other events at which jeans and sneakers won’t cut it. Now that the kids are wearing PE uniforms to school twice a week, I’ve kind of slacked off in the clothing department. I think we are all set now, but walking around the city did us in, so we came home, crashed on the couch, and had pizza and movie night.



Yesterday the kids got up and played, allowing me to sleep in a bit. Milo had an afternoon birthday party to go to, so we all hung out in our pajamas until it was time for him to get ready. I made a big pot of soup inspired by the harissa I bought in the Mauguio market. It’s delicious, and vegetarian and hearty. I highly recommend it. You can find the recipe at Epicurious.com: http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Tunisian-Soup-with-Chard-and-Egg-Noodles-351436.



I read the reviews on the site and heeded some of the advice, using ground cumin, and adding shredded roast chicken and fresh cilantro. Also, check your harissa before you put it in to see how spicy it is. Mine is pretty spicy so I added one tablespoon instead of two. You can always add more at the end if you want more heat.



C.C. and I went for a great hike up in the hills while Milo was at his party—it was warm enough to be walking in our t-shirts, which felt great. Then we picked Milo up and watched the original Horton Hears a Who video, which also features several other Seuss cartoons—much better than the recent Hollywood version. We had a sleepover in my bed last night—something we often do when one of us is out of town—which meant I got jabbed by little elbows and knees all night. To top it off, C.C. insisted on bringing her entire stuffed dinosaur collection, and Milo appeared with Blue Bear (who’s not really blue), Pink Monkey, and a soft baseball. But I didn´t really mind. Whenever I got woken up, I thought about how little time I likely have left during which they will want to snuggle in with me.

Provence, sort of...

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

No, I did not drop off the edge of the world.  We went to France—southern France.  In December.  Not exactly the southern France of the Cannes Film Festival and the Riviera, but at least we had no crowds.

December 6 and 8 are holidays here, and this year they fell on a Monday and Wednesday, so of course everyone took the 7^th off as well, creating another 5 day weekend.  When a holiday falls on a Thursday or Tuesday, and you get the Friday/Monday off as well, it’s called a Puente, or bridge.  When you get two extra days off, it’s called an aqueducto.  I like this practice.  We had no internet access at our French home, so I did not write.  And, even though we returned to Barcelona on Wednesday night, somehow I had gotten out of the blogging groove.  I’m back.

We did a home exchange with a lovely retired couple who live near Montpellier.  Montpellier is not technically part of Provence, but it’s close.  Margareda, who is Swedish, met Alain 40 years ago when she came to France to study the language.  And she never went back.  The house we stayed in used to belong to Alain’s mother.  Situated on a small canal in the village of Mauguio near the sea, it basically functioned as a hunting and fishing cottage.  When she died, Alain and Margareda completely renovated it and now spend time there when they want to get away.   It is small and cozy—painted bright yellow throughout, with a fireplace and local linens on the tables and bed.  The large fenced yard was perfect for the kids, who “fished” in the canal and looked for flamingos and other shore birds.

We are a family that travels on our stomach.  Long ago I stopped feeling guilty for not spending most of my travel time in church after church, obscure museum after obscure museum.  Rather than punctuating our sightseeing with quick stops to refuel, we create our travel agendas around food markets, pastry shops, and restaurants we want to try. 

We left Barcelona around 5 pm on Friday and set off for the 3 ½ hour drive.  We ate our first French meal at a rest area not far over the border and, not surprisingly, it left a lot to be desired.  Even in France, rest stop food is rest stop food.  There were a few notable differences, however.  For example, the plastic flowers for sale in the vending machine (see photo).  And the two grand pianos—one pink—that graced the dining room.  We arrived shortly after 10 pm and met Margareda and Alain on the road near their house so that they could help us find it.  They had stocked the house with wine—red, white, and rose—along with breadfast fixings.  They oriented us to local sites on a map, we gave them our keys, and they were on their way.

On Saturday we drove to Montpellier and, arriving hungry, looked right away for a place to have lunch.  We found one that claimed to be good for families in our guide book, and went straight there.  It looked a little nicer than the family restaurants we’re accustomed to, and had higher prices to match, but we decided that getting food into our bodies was top priority.  Alec and I had terrific and inventive fish dishes, and we ordered the 15 euro kids’ menus for C.C. and Milo.  Unfortunately, both Alec and I swore the waiter said the main course was poulet (chicken), but what showed up was salmon, which neither of them touched.  Clearly, our French was rusty.

After paying $18 each for our kids to eat a lot of French bread and butter, and the ice cream that came with their meals, we walked through the old town which featured a large holiday market, and got them waffles with chocolate sauce.  It was cold, and I had a cup of hot mulled wine, which totally hit the spot.

Sunday is market day in Mauguio, and Margareda had told us it was a really good market that lots of people travelled to.  We set out in the morning, excited despite the chilly grey drizzle, and bought amazing cheeses, two kinds of honey, olives, chicken sausage, bread, croissants, a marinated duck leg, local mussels and oysters, and home made harissa.  After dropping our market booty back home, we set out again for two nearby seaside towns—Grand Motte, an odd, 1970s era planned resort that we were told “must be seen”; I don’t think I agree.  And Aigues-Morte, a 13^th century walled village with enormous towers at each corner, one of which housed the Bourginons killed during a particular battle.  The corpses were so numerous that they had to be stacked inside, each layer covered with a thick blanket of salt to keep them from smelling too much.  Indeed, this is sea salt country, and we drove past the Baleine plant that seems to stock every Whole Foods and gourmet grocery in the US.  On this particular day, mostly deserted Aigues-Morte hosted a western-themed telethon.  One of the buildings on the main plaza had its doors flung open so that the country music echoed across the ancient buildings.  We peeked in and saw a horde of line dancers whooping it up, many of them dressed in acqua suede cowboy boots and matching shirts.  Sometimes you come across strange things when you travel.

That night Alec cooked our mussels, provencal style of course, and they were delicious.  We each ate huge bowls of them and sopped up the sauce with our baguette, all for about $4.00 total.

We decided we were more interested in seeing small villages than larger cities, so the next day we drove beyond Arles to the town of St. Remy de Provence, which used to be owned by Princess Caroline’s family and is now just beautiful.  And it houses a fabulous chocolate shop—Joel Durand, chocolate, where we all got a little delirious.  My favorite?  The salted caramel and dark chocolate bars.  I have not yet tried the ice cream sauces we brought back, but I’ve been nibbling my way through the other treats.  www.chocolat-durand.com.

After walking around some incredible Roman ruins outside the city, we drove the short distance to Les Baux de Provence, another medieval hill town with a gorgeous view, and enjoyed walking the mostly deserted streets.  We’ve figured out that medieval walled cities are a sweet spot for us because we can browse shops or sit and eat a nice lunch while the kids run around outside.  Most of these villages are entirely pedestrian or have very few cars.

On Tuesday—another day with no sun--we lazed around the house in the morning and then drove toward Saintes Marie de la Mer.  Note that it’s Saintes Marie, not just one Saint Marie.  The story goes that after Jesus was crucified, the three Marys who were the first to see him resurrected—Mary Magdalene, Jesus’s Aunt Mary (his mother’s sister, who was also named Mary) and another Mary, took off from Egypt in a boat that had no sail and no oars.  They were joined by Black Sarah, a servant from Egypt.  Somehow, they wound up in the south of France.  Take a look at a map—this is long way to go without sails and oars.  But I supposed they had other forces on their side.  Anyway, there are now enormous pilgrimages to this town every year; like most activities that take place in this neck of the woods, the pilgrimages are in the summer.  A lower chapel of the church in town is devoted to Sarah, who was also sainted at some point.  The chapel features a statue of Sarah dressed in a gaudy, sparkly dress that’s a few sizes too big and a fake tiara.  People light candles and leave notes and plaques—asking for favors or thanking her for miracles.  We lit candles for Grandpa Joe and Hoover, and the kids drew some pictures to stuff into the message box.  Even though my Dad did not go to Catholic church much during my lifetime, the smell of the incense and the candles—and all of those Marys—make me feel close to him.

That night Alec grilled our market chicken sausages over the fire, and we heated up some Riesling cooked sauerkraut that we had also bought at the market. Delicious.

Wednesday we had to pack up and head out.  We took a detour to the village of Carcassonne—another medieval, walled village.  The kids played knights and dragons while we ate cassoulet and vegetable soup out on the terrace of one of the restaurants that stays open in winter.  It was warm in the sun and the views were incredible.

So ours was not the Provence of bright sun and impossibly purple lavender fields.  But it is a beautiful part of the world nonetheless.