Ode d'Eau

An Homage to Water
A few days ago, we spent an afternoon in Bouzigues. It was wonderful to see the water again, and there was a refreshing breeze blowing through this quaint town. Honey was so happy to see the tide washing in that she barked at the water.


Lots of restaurants, some B&Bs, and scads of summer/weekend homes there, yet it remains under Wikipedia's radar. It does however, have its own flag:


Great views:



A lovely promenade to stroll an enjoy the scenery:


Traps for shellfish dot the water, and the industry seems to be a big part of Bouzigues — so a plate of mussels was in order:


Our friends Debb and Reed have a summer place in Bouzigues, and we hope to pay them a visit this week. Stay tuned!

Grape Expectations

It's time for the big grape harvest in Abelihan!


It was cloudy and overcast in hamlet on Tuesday.


But the grape harvest is in full swing. We know because we've been seeing all kinds of crazy big tractors and machinery on the roads and in the vineyards this past week.

Harvest time in this part of France here differs from Burgundy and Bordeaux (where they make fancier, pricier wines) in that it is very mechanized, and doesn't rely nearly as much on labor. It relies on equipment. Big, loud, heavy, loud, spooky-looking — and did I mention loud? — equipment. I got a picture recently of what I believe is a grape harvester:


Even in the wee hours, heavy machinery is buzzing around the sleepy streets of our hamlet, trying to pluck those sweet grapes at just the right time. No, that's not the clatter of recycling being picked up at 3 in the morning, it's the rumble of vintners getting tractors out to the fields. And they say New York is the city that never sleeps.

It seemed like a good time to grab the camera and traipse around the corner to nearest winery to get some snapshots of all the hubbub.


Making your way, you must be careful of slippery grape spillage on the road:


Rounding the corner, we could see the storage vats. I rummaged around in my murse (man-purse, that is), but couldn't find a straw to dip into a vat. Rats!


As we got closer, we could see something shooting out of the main building into a big metal hopper. Leaves and twigs? Bad grapes? Spoiled lettuce from the salad bar in the employee cafeteria?


Nope. Grape stems!


One of the many tractors we'd seen rumbling around the village this week was parked at the processing area of the winery. It's a small vehicle compared with some of the crazy picking machines we've seen headed to the fields lately.


The tractor's trailer was too high to peer into, so I held up my camera for a glimpse inside — empty, wouldn't you know?


Farther along, we could see where all those tractors were headed with their trailers full of grapes. Seems like it was the day for trucking in grapes to make rose:


Tractor #6142 finally pulled away, heading out for more Cinsau(l)t:

Just Desserts

When I started this blog (waaay back last October), I wrote about my favorite pastry: the Paris-Brest. It's named after a the oldest bicycle race still run, and it's filled with sinfully creamy hazelnut-praline buttercream.

Well, here in the wee hamlet of Abeilhan, I may have found the best Paris Brest. Ever! I was getting bread yesterday morning at the bakery, and there it was. At 1.10 euors, I couldn't say non to that freshly baked sinful concoction.

Words fail me. But maybe you can get a taste of it by following these pictures of how I devoured my treat. Here's a bite-by-bite playback:






Vince, who's not crazy about sweets, seemed to enjoy the last bite. He even stopped reading his Agatha Christie book to have a taste:



And Honey loved licking the plate clean:

The Great Mac Meltdown of '09 and the Healing Waters of Lamalou-les-Bains

I'm back online, after a short trip to Computer Hell. It's not a nice place to visit, and I certainly don't want to live there. But I'm a better (bitter?) person for having made the trip. Spolier alert: It's a somewhat long (and heart-wrenching) story, but there's a happy ending with pretty pictures. You can just skip to that part if you like. That's why your mouse has a scroll-wheel, after all.

Picture it: A wee hamlet in the south of France, where the church bells have just struck 23:00 (aka 11 pm). We wend our way up two flights of stairs in a lovely, well-appointed home to the office, where we find a diligent Web worker (who fancies himself a "digital nomad") burning the soon-to-be midnight oil.

He has a secure VPN connection to his client (PC World, in this case), a strong wireless signal, and is fervently posting technology stories when his MacBook freezes. He reboots the sleek (and some would say overpriced) laptop, but can't log on to the computer.

After a wee period of panic, he calls Apple for technical assistance. Turns out his log-in file has been corrupted. Yes, his log-in file — as in, if one can't get past that window, one's MacBook becomes a sleek and wholly useless chunk of white plastic.

The mystical, magical modern technology that has allowed our hero to live and work on the road — and afforded him a summer of travel in the warm Languedoc sun (thus saving him from the chilly fog of SF) — has taken a moment to mock him.

The technology gods giveth, and they taketh away.

Luckily, the helpful folks at Apple restoreth what the ghost in the machine taketh. Oh, there was a long phone call to Apple Support on Tuesday night. And two more long phone calls on Wednesday. One rather small file glitch required a big cleanup.

And that's my saga.

My computer now thinks I'm someone new and we've never met. I'm no longer the User-Formerly-Known-As alec. We are no longer familiar enough for first names, lowercased like ee cummings (OK, kd lang). I'm now Alec_Wagner. First and last, capped, and with a decidedly cyberesque punctuation mark for a middle name. It makes me miss my real middle name, Cunningham. Yes, Cunningham. Please stop snickering. It's a family name, and I like it (now that I'm not a kid and no one remembers nerdy Richie Cunningham — who was once the much cuter Opie Taylor — from Happy Days).

But I again have access to my applications; e-mail; pictures; music; browser bookmarks, log-ins and passwords — and best of all, a way to get back to blogging.

It feels great to be back online, even if (according to my MacBook), I'm not quite myself.

Now here's they really happy ending: Vince and I did some more exploring on Wednesday. We took a short trip to Lamalou-les-Bains, known for its natural springs. It was an easy trip, and a welcome respite from the heat of Abeilhan. A few degrees cooler, and very cute:


It was just a short afternoon trip, so we didn't stay to "take the waters." We did, however, stop for a long, leisurely lunch at the Hotel Belleville Restaurant in the center of town.


We had the big fish platter:


Yummy mussels, tuna-rice salad, calamari, cucumber-tomato gazpacho, and fritures (little whole fried fish — like French fries from the sea).

Honey loves fritures.

Servian: Walk on the Wild Side?

OK, Servian is not at all wild. But it is charming, full of life and history and a buzz that's missing in Abeilhan.

Abeilhan is peaceful, but sleepy. Well, dormant, actually.

Servian, as we discovered yesterday, has cafes, restaurants, shops and a small market that we really like (unremarkable, but full of fresh produce at Farmer's Market prices). And here's the clincher: It's 3 km (about 1.8 miles) from Abeilhan. We drove there yesterday, but we're thinking we could easily work up to walking there in the mornings (when's it's cooler) and walking back when we're done with our marketing and cafe-ing. A countrified fitness regimen of sorts.

Anyhow, we ambled up to the plaza and knew we'd found our go-to village.


Honey was dubious about the cat. With good reason. She seems to guard the whole square.


The old church and town hall were impressive as well. You should hear the church bells on a Sunday — glorious (as in glorious-hallelujah!). Truly splendiferous.



Servian is also the home of a gas station (that's occasionally open) with cheap fuel (for France) and an attached mini-mart that has just about everything under then sun. The wicked-hot, unrelenting Languedoc sun. Thank gawd the mini-mart's air-conditioned! We'll hang out anywhere that has A/C.

So that's the plan: morning walks to the neighboring village at least three times per week. We'll let you know how it goes!

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Spit.

After a couple of weeks in Languedoc, it was imperative that I go for a little dégustation de vins (wine-tasting). So far, I have counted three wineries in town, but there may be more. I don't walk about much as it's so very hot during the day.

Anyhow, with guests at the house, it seemed the perfect afternoon's diversion. Trish, Jeff, and I traipsed about 3 or 4 blocks (hard to tell, as they don't really have "blocks" in the country) to Domaine St. Georges-d'Ibry.


Jeff got into the spirit of our adventure by displaying grapes growing on our neighbor's fence:


He put his shirt back on before we got to the winery. He's kooky, but well-mannered.

We learned the "Four S's" of wine tasting.

Sniff. Inhale the "bouquet," or the aroma of the wine. Floral notes, like lavender? Fruity? Freshly poured asphalt? What do you smell?






Sip. Take a taste. Or, like Trish, take a big fat slug.








Swish. Not a jab at anyone light in the loafers (!) — one should "swirl" the wine in the mouth then gently breathe in through clenched teeth. Why does Alec look tipsy when taking his first swishy sip? We worry about him.








Spit. Into the silver bucket. Pretty.











Anyhow, that's the drill. Trish and Jeff fell in love with a couple of reds, and got those — along with a bottle of super-yummy white for Vince and Alec. Such thoughtful guests. Alec bought a bottle of rose (when in the Languedoc...), and a nice light red. We had a lovely afternoon.

Who wouldn't? How nice is the tasting room?


How nice is the guy who runs it? His English is better than Alec's French (although we spoke a smattering of both).


And how cool is the winery's collection of machines, vats, tack and bric-a-brac?





A great way to spend the day — pleasant, easy good times with great friends. Vince and I will return throughout the summer. (And, yes, that means we're taking you, Ted, Susan, and Bill! Are you packed and ready yet?)

The Pirates of Pezenas

So what's up with the Experimental Expatriate? After a false start last October, it picked up steam in mid-July, had fresh content nearly every day for a few weeks, slowed to a trickle — then nothing for days.

One word: pirates. I was kidnapped by pirates in Pezenas. Yes, that's it. Pirates.

See, it's like this: Our friends Lyn, Trish and Jeff came into Beziers on Saturday so we picked them up at the train. Lyn and Trish are particularly avid travelers — they never miss a minute of the action, even when they're in transit.


They'd been traveling in Italy (Florence and Venice) as well as the Cote d'Azur (Nice), then made a beeline for the Languedoc.

Honey was delighted to have houseguests.


Anyhow, we wanted to show them Pezenas, a town we fell in love with when we visited a few days prior to their arrival. That's when the pirates of Pezenas swooped down on us, forcing us on a tour of the town.

According to the head pirate, the town's name "is derived from the older name Piscenae, probably from the Latin word piscenis, meaning fishpond. According to legend, there was a lake full of fish behind the château. Inhabitants of Pézenas are Piscenois." I'm not sure, but I think he got his info from wikipedia.

We started in the main square at the Droits de L'Homme ("Rights of Man"), a statue/fountain dedicated to French citizens after the revolution:


Then, the pirates made Honey lead the way into the old part of town, dragging Vince along behind.


We found the old part of town very appealing. Just touristy enough, without being tarted up and Disneyfied. Warm weather, no crowds, and lots of beautiful vistas awaited us on every turn of our forced march. If one must be hijacked by pirates, it's best to do so in pleasant surroundings, I always say.



But where would all his lead? Would we be forced to swab the deck? Walk the plank? Would we stop for lunch?


Talented lensman Jeff recorded our captivity for posterity. After he found his camera's "on" switch.


The tour of the old city ended at the old Jewish ghetto in town that dates back to the 14th century. Yes, the sign reads: "Le Ghetto."


I ducked into a bakery and bought cookies for the pirates, hoping they would have mercy and release us.


The scurvy-dog swashbucklers then took this photo and made me promise to include it in my next posting, as proof that no tourists were harmed in the making of this blog entry.