Author: leahlarkin

 Strings of twinkling lights decorating the bare trees swung precariously back and forth.  Dried, brown leaves flew in every direction.  Wisps of black clouds raced across a full moon.  The Mistral had arrived.

It was the La Nuit des 13 Desserts (night of 13 desserts) in Rasteau, an ancient town  in Provence’s Vaucluse.  Although the wicked wind gave no respite for the festivities in this village known for its wine,  it did not dampen the spirits of  some 800 souls who came to wander through the town’s cobbled streets, stopping at stands to savor the Christmas treats as they sipped local wines.                

Thirteen desserts served after the réveillon (Christmas Eve dinner)  are a holiday tradition in Provence adhered to by even the staunchest Scrooge. The desserts symbolize Christ and the 12 apostles. Dates, figs, raisins, hazelnuts, almonds, nougat, fresh and crystallized fruit and fougasse (a type of flat bread) are among the selection. 

Those who came to Rasteau that night were bundled up in ski jackets, long coats with hoods, mittens and scarves.   They seemed prepared for the wind, which fortunately did let up occasionally.

 Nine booths were set up  along Rasteau’s  alleys and paths leading to the  hilltop church of St. Didier, each one offering a different dessert, as well as local wines. Some of the weathered houses along the route were festively decorated with lights.  Torches and candles illuminated the path to the church.   

At some stands, barrels with roaring fires provided warmth. Hot wine was offered with roasted chestnuts at one stand. The nougat stand offered both black and white chunks of the candy which was so hard one had to wonder if it had not been supplied by the local dentist hoping for more business. Interspersed with the dessert stands was entertainment – story tellers, a concert at a chapel, folk songs, an organ grinder, even a mini theatrical production. 

“We’ve doubled the size of the town tonight, “  said Robert Aimé, the mayor of Rasteau (population 700) announced proudly.  The jolly evening came to an end  about 11 p.m. when most of the fest goers headed home just in time to avoid the torrential rain which  replaced the wind.  That was two years ago.  Unfortunatley, due to the precarious weather in December, Rasteau no longer hosts the Night of 13 Desserts.

Thirteen desserts is just one of many special Christmas traditions in Provence where   the holiday season officially gets underway on December 4, the feast of Sainte Barbe, the patron of miners and fire fighters who lived in the third century.  On this day  it’s the custom to scatter grains of wheat in a saucer covered with moistened cotton.  The grains are diligently watered everyday.  By Christmas Day they should have sprouted, producing a  dish of lush green shoots which foretell a bounteous harvest for the coming year.  Beware – if the grains rot the harvest will be poor.

 The mini wheat field becomes an essential part of the Christmas crèche. In Provence, the crèche is de rigueur.  But not just any crèche.  Provençal crèche figures are special:  santons  from the Provençal word santoun meaning “little saint.”   The Italians were thought to be the originators of the Christmas crèche.  In Provence the custom was copied beginning in the 12th century when parts of it were ruled by Italy.  Back then it was mainly the churches that set up a nativity scene.  When the churches were closed during the French Revolution, citizens secretly made their own crèche figures of papier-mâché or bread crumbs and created a manger scene at home.

 Through the years the scenes in Provence crèches became more elaborate, the figures more numerous.   In addition to the baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, the Three Kings, and animals, a santon crèche can be a mini reconstruction of a Provençal village with a baker, butcher, fish monger, doctor, even boule (Provence bowling) players, in addition to houses, barns, shops and streams.  An animal missing is the cat.  According to legend the cat is associated with witchcraft and was banned from the crèche by St. Francis of Assisi.

 At the Santon Museum in Fontaine de Vaucluse some 2,000 santons and 60 crèche and Provenç al scenes are on display. The smallest features 39 tiny santons in a walnut shell.  The collection includes santons made of terra cotta, wood, wax and bread crumbs. Some of the figures move – a baker shoving bread into an oven, a woman spinning yarn, another doing laundry..

During the Christmas season, many towns and villages in Provence host santon markets with vendors offering all sizes of the figures and an extensive range of different village characters in a wide range of prices. Santon collections are a part of the décor in many a Provence home, with the figures displayed year round. 

 Be it in Paris or Provence, food plays a star role at Christmas.  For many in France, the Christmas Eve meal outranks that served on Christmas Day. In Provence it’s known as the gros souper or big supper served before Midnight Mass.  The dinner table is covered with three white tablecloths to symbolize the Trinity.  There may also be three white candles, but never any mistletoe in the Provence home as it is said to bring bad luck. 

An ancient tradition may precede the meal, the Cacho-fio or lighting of the Yule log which should be from a fruit tree. The youngest and oldest members of the family bring the log to the fireplace and pour mulled wine over it three times before it is lit.  It then must burn for three days.  This custom is said to be the inspiration for the Büche de Noel, the Christmas log which these days is a cream-filled cake in the shape  of a log that pastry shops sell during the holidays.  

I won’t be making a Buche de Noel this Christmas, but this morning I made my special Holiday Fruitcakes.  See the recipe in the far column. 

 Joyeux Noel, Merry Christmas! 

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The bow of the big raft lurched high in the air over another oncoming wave, then abruptly smashed back down.  Then again, and again. Up and down. Water splashed on board. Passengers were tossed about, but they loved it, shrieking with delight.

All around us were the great waterfalls, tons of water avalanching down into the river where the raft bobbed.  This was the “Gran Aventura” ride on the Argentinean side of Iguazu Falls which border both Argentina and Brazil, but can also be seen from Paraguay. 

The real adventure was yet to come as the raft got nearer and nearer to the torrents of water.  Soon everyone was completely soaked. The helmsman was determined to give us our money’s worth.  He steered closer and closer, adding an element of fear to the thrilling ride. Shrieks turned to screams. It was better than anything you’d find in an amusement park.

 My friend Isabel and I spent three days in the Argentinean town of Puerto Iguazú near the Falls. The boat ride was a highlight of our Falls visit which began with a train ride through the jungle.  The train deposited us at a trail where we followed a guide who led us through the dense tropical environment.  Soon we heard a roar in the distance.  It grew louder as we approached the magnificent sight, thunderous, powerful surges of water.  We proceeded onto a walkway which took us to the edge of the falls which cascade as far as 200 feet below.  Shifting winds blew sprays of water in every direction. Rainbows danced in the mist. Birds dove above. Everyone was taking pictures of the falls, and of each other with the falls in the background.  

This is no Niagara, but some 275 waterfalls shaped by 120 million years of geological history.  That’s the amazing part—not just one big falls, but falls everywhere.  Our walk on the Upper Circuit took us past several falls with viewing stands along the edges.  The Lower Circuit walk leads below yet other falls. Some wide and open.  Others long and narrow and surrounded by vegetation.  It’s all overwhelming.

 Our guide Margarita, who got married at the falls named “Margarita,” provided us with interesting facts about the Falls and the surrounding jungle.  The latter shelters 2,000 different kinds of plants, 200 species of trees, 85 species of orchids, five different kinds of bamboo, 450 bird species, 80 kinds of mammals including the jaguar  and 2,000 different insects including 250 kinds of butterflies.  The birds that fly around the Falls are swifts.   They have clawed feet which prevent them from landing. They hang off rocks and eat insects in the spray.  And, “they copulate in the air.”

 Every year two to three people commit suicide at the Falls, Margarita said, and they are always women. 

Our package tour also included an excursion to Brazil to see the Falls from that country.  The views there are said to offer a greater panorama.  Alas, I was not told that as an American I would need a visa to go to Brazil.  Cost would have been about $150, plus a long wait in a line at the Brazilian consulate in the town of Iguazu.  I decided, mainly for financial reasons, to pass.  Isabel, who is Irish, did not need a visa.  She went to Brazil and said it was stunning.

 Our hotel on the outskirts of Iguazú was almost next door to a wildlife refuge, the Güiráoga Center where rescued animals live in a natural habitat. We boarded an open truck into the jungle, then followed a guide to large enclosures where different animals lived.  It’s illegal in Argentina to keep wild animals as pets.  Many of the animal residents were taken from homes where they had been pets.  Others were hit by cars or had been injured by hunters.  The goal is to re-introduce all to the wild, but some, such as a black-fronted Piping guan, a large bird which lost one eye to a sling-shot, cannot be fully rehabilitated and will stay at the center. 

We especially enjoyed watching, and trying to photograph, the Brown Capuchin monkeys.  We were shocked at some of the tragic stories about the animals.  A Toucan had been found inside a suitcase, along with 17 other of the colorful big-beaked birds, in the cargo hold of a plane at the airport in Buenos Aries.  This is the only one that survived.  Then there was the coati which was recovering from food poisoning.  Coatis (similar to raccoons) hang out at the food stands and restaurants at the Falls.  They are very tame and engaging. Tourists, even though they are told not to, feed the animals.

See more photos of the Falls under “photo album” center column. And, feel free to comment on this blog. Click on “comments” below.

 

It was a sunny August afternoon in Buenos Aires as I walked down Carlos Pellegrini avenue with a friend.  We were off to a museum. The broad sidewalk of this major thoroughfare was crowded with pedestrians, three and four abreast in each direction.  I clutched my purse and camera tightly to my body as I always do when traveling.  

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a man lunged at my neck and ripped my three gold necklaces from my body.  He raced down the steps of a subway entrance, disappearing with my precious jewelry.  I was in shock. My neck hurt. It seemed unreal. 

Fortunately my friend Gill offered comfort and care.  We retreated to a nearby restaurant where I ordered a beer to calm my nerves.  When I realized what had happened, the tears flowed.  But, I had to be thankful I was not hurt. And, I can only blame myself for wearing gold jewelry on the streets of Buenos Aires.  I’ve read articles about this very kind of theft.  Why did I think it would not happen to me?  Worse yet, did I even think at all? 

That was the first day of a two-week trip to Argentina to ski with the Ski Club of International Journalists in Ushuaia.  See previous blog, “To the End of the World.” 

My stroke of bad luck actually began the day before when we arrived at the airport.  All my European friends proceeded quickly through customs.  I was stopped and told to go to another desk.  There I learned that Americans must purchase a $140 visa to enter Argentina.  Apparently it’s because the U.S. requires the same of Argentineans visiting the United States.  Lucky Europeans. 

Things improved once we got to the ski slopes, at least for the first few days. But on our last day, a gorgeous day that makes skiing an out-of-this world experience,  someone skiing at lightning speed crashed into me as I stood in a lift line.  The binding on the leg with my bad knee (that’s another story) did not release.  My knee was twisted into a painful position.  When I finally got skis and poles sorted out, with help from others in line, I was in pain.  I had to stop skiing.  So I spent most of that last lovely day in a lodge.

 A post trip to Iguazu Falls was part of my Argentina adventure.  Irish friend Isabel and I booked a package tour and spent three great days ( well maybe two for me) at this amazing site. We had a wonderful hotel.  The first day’s tour to the Argentina side of the Falls was super.  We planned to tour the Brazilian side the next day.  When the van arrived to pick us up, the driver asked for our passports.  He spotted my American passport and asked if I had a visa.  I did not.  He said a visa was required of Americans visiting  Brazil.  It would require photos and a trip to the Brazilian consulate in the town where he said I would undoubtedly have to wait in a long line.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought the visa would cost about $160.

 The tour company we booked the trip through knew I was American.  They never mentioned the visa. I thought about trying to get one and joining the tour the next day, but I decided $160 to spend two hours in Brazil was out of the question.  Isabel went and said it was fabulous.

 What else can go wrong?  Unfortunately I picked up some evil germs on the trip.  It’s been two months, and even though I am no longer really sick, I still don’t feel up to par. 

My postcard writing is another saga.  I diligently wrote 12 postcards to friends and family as I thought sending a card from “the end of the world” was neat.  I purchased DHL stamps at a hotel.  The cards, I learned, finally arrived this week, some two months after they were mailed.  But, they did arrive.

I just returned from a trip to Germany where fortunately my luck improved.  During three weeks in the country I experienced only two days of rain – almost unheard of in Deutschland. Stay tuned, I’ll be writing about Iguazu Falls (Argentina – the bright side) and Germany soon.

 Feel free to comment on my blog.  Click “comments” below.

 

 

Some 68 skiing journalists from 24 countries recently visited the  “end of the world,” Ushuaia, Argentina, the world’s southernmost city. It was the 57^th winter meeting (it’s winter in Argentina) of the Journalists’ International Ski Club (SCIJ) www.scij.info

The trip had more than its share of mishaps for me, but I’ll relate those in another blog.  Read on for a tale of fun.

It all got underway in Buenos Aires with a dynamite dinner and tango show. This sensuous, sexy dance is to Buenos Aries what flamenco is to Madrid.  Maybe even more. There are dance halls where locals show off their moves, street dancers who stop pedestrian traffic, as well as the glitzy shows.  It’s enticing, spell binding.

But we came to ski, not dance. Ushuaia, a port city surrounded by snowy peaks with a population of 55,000,  is at the bottom of the country, 3,000 kilometers from Buenos Aires in the Tierra del Fuego province and some 1,100 kilometers from Antarctica.  The ski week got off to a lively start with the city’s welcome ceremony.  Through the streets, we followed local children carrying the flags of the countries represented to a hall and museum where the mayor and other officials greeted us.

The museum is Ushuaia’s former jail and military prison. In the late 19^th century, Argentina wanted to colonize this distant post and decided to establish a prison there for “second offenders.”  The convicts were put to work building the prison which was not completed until 1920.  It was closed in 1947.

The museum exhibits shed light on prison life.  In the same building is the Maritime Museum with displays on Antarctica expeditions.

Next day off to the slopes at the nearby resort, Cerro Castor, a lovely ski area with lots of wide open cruising runs and pleasant woodsy and stone lodges.  We were most impressed with the organization and attentiveness at the rental facility.  Only a few participants (those who take the obligatory races very seriously) brought their own skis and boots.  At Cerro Castor, in addition to distributing skis and boots in record time, the staff even helped us on and off with our boots.

The weather in Ushuaia tends to be gray.  It is said it either rains or snows almost every day.  It had been drizzling in the city the day before  our giant slalom competition but it was snow on the slopes so we had excellent racing conditions.  And,  because we were such a small number,  we each had the opportunity to ski the course twice, with the best time counting in the final results.

That afternoon we attended a round table discussion with ex-combatants, several former soldiers wearing tan leather jackets loaded with medals,  from the Malvinas (Falkland Islands). They explained their conviction that the Malvinas belong to Argentina, not Great Britain, and related how they have been ignored by the Argentinean government, presumably since they lost the war.  And, they let us know they’d be ready to fight again to reclaim the islands now inhabited by British citizens.

There was time for more than skiing during our week at the end of the world.

We had a bus tour and walk through the National Park in Tierra del Fuego, a vast area of forests, peat bogs, and water.  The guide told us about the early inhabitants in this area, the Yamana, who went naked in this frigid environment and had constant fires to keep them warm, even in their boats, hence the origin of the name Tierra del Fuego (land of fire) as it was called by European explorers. 

We took a ride on the “End of the World Train,”  an old steam train that, some 100 years ago, brought prisoners to the area to cut trees to supply wood for heating and building purposes for the prison in Ushuaia.  Fields of tree stumps still abound in the area. In this climate it takes ages for trees to regenerate.

And, we took a boat ride in the Beagle Channel, the body of water which connects Ushuaia to the Atlantic Ocean.  We stopped off shore of an island where hundreds of sea lions lounged on the rocks.  Hanging out behind them were flocks of Imperial Cormorants, large regal black birds with long necks and white bellies which can dive to a depth of 80 meters. The sea lions, a noisy, stinky lot, live in harems, we learned.  A great photo opp.

Nation’s night is a tradition at SCIJ meets.  Participants bring refreshments (liquid and solid) from their respective countries to share.  It’s a feast:  Italian pasta, Russian caviar, French foie gras, Swiss cheese, Finish reindeer sausage, Swedish salmon, Belgian chocolate, etc. – all washed down with an incredible variety of international alcoholic beverages.

SCIJ members are a tough lot.  Party until the wee hours, but fit for the slopes early the next morning.  The cross-country race demands extra stamina.  It’s always fun. An
après-race tradition is Dutch pea soup made by the team from Holland. Unfortunately the ingredients did not make it through Argentinean customs, but this did not stop the innovative Dutch who used local produce to concoct a tasty soup.

After the race we participated in a variety of snow activities:   snow mobiling, dog sledding and snow shoeing. We followed a leader on the snow mobiles, but I was anxious to race across the snow on my own in the vehicle for even more thrills.  Sledding was super. I love the dogs and am always amazed at their speed and power.

As everyone knows, Argentina is beef country.  We had our share of bovine flesh as well as some lamb.  The assado is a staple: a variety of cuts and sometimes sausage grilled and served on the “parilla,” a small grill.  Very tasty, especially with chimichurri, the spicy Argentine sauce made from parsley, olive oil, garlic, vinegar and hot pepper flakes.  There are numerous versions with additional flavorings such as paprika, cumin, cilantro…

Then there are the wines.  We savored many a glass of the famous red wine, Malbec, but also discovered some delectable whites (Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc).  The beer is also good.  You can find it in three colors: blonde, red and black. 

After the ski week, I returned to Buenos Aries and from there my friend Isabel and I continued to Iguazu Falls. See a future blog for more on that adventure. Click on the photo in the middle column to see my photos.

All is not paradise perfect in Provence.  Last winter bordered on hell.  Disaster after disaster.  The cold days will be upon us before long.  Hopefully we will be better prepared.

Winters here are much more severe than we had imagined – and they get colder every year.  Last winter we had several major snowfalls, one with 20 inches of the white stuff, and months of temperatures in the low 20s. (Fahrenheit).

Our house is half way down a steep hill on a dirt road which is not snow-ploughed very often. After the big snow, Bob put chains on the car so we could get out.  The snow was so deep the chains broke.  We were snowed in, but fortunately the village center and a small grocery store are just a 25-minute walk.  And, with all the snow, the walk was beautiful.

We naively bought a house with no central heating.  We have electric space heaters on the walls, but they are old, expensive to use and not very effective.  So, our main source of heat has been the fireplace, which does have pipes distributing the heat to various parts of the house.  Nonetheless we froze.  At first heating with the fireplace was romantic, nostalgic, quaint. We felt like pioneers.  But we soon learned living like pioneers was no fun. Chopping wood. Stacking wood.  Hauling wood.  Our living quarters are on the second floor, so the wood has to be lugged up the steps.  That’s the easy part. 

Keeping a fire burning is anything but easy.  Much of the wood we initially purchased was too young.  It did not burn well.  Bob cursed and swore. He tried all sorts of tricks to get a fire going.  And, once going, the chore was to keep it burning.  It takes diligent surveillance.  If you go away and leave it for several hours, it will be out when you return, and the house will be like Antarctica. You need to start all over.  During the night Bob would get up several times to stoke the fire.   I offered to assist and take my turn.  He refused to let me.  I guess it’s a macho thing.

We coped, wearing many layers of clothing.  Sometimes I even wore gloves.

I did end up with a chronic sinus infection which plagued me much of the winter.

One brisk winter day, after noticing all the smoke from neighbors’ chimneys,   Bob decided to go outside and take a look at ours.  Not smoke, but flames were soaring out.  He yelled. I panicked.  I raced to call the volunteer fire department.  They nonchalantly gave me instructions to put the fire out.  I was shaking with fear, but we got the fire out, although the house was full of smoke.   The firemen eventually showed up, but if we had had to wait for them, the house would have been ashes.

They inspected our chimney and reported that it was not constructed properly.  No more fires until this could be rectified. Now, we would really shiver. The firemen went into the attic to further check the chimney.  More bad news.  All our insulation, which was much too thin, they said, had been installed upside down.  That was a major reason we were living in Siberia-like conditions, they told us.

One of the firemen just happened to be qualified to do the required chimney work.  He came back several days later and did the job.  Of course, it was a major expense.

From the fire to floods. It finally warmed up a bit outside, and the snow turned to rain.  Buckets of it.  All the mountains of snow piled up on our tile roof melted – right down into our living room, office, bedroom.  Leaks everywhere. We got out the buckets and called in a roofer.  We had serious problems which would require extensive repairs.  More money.

Then we noticed that the plot of grass above our septic tank was very green and swamp like. We called in the experts and were told we had a “bouchon,” a blockage somewhere. Two men came and dug to expose the tank.  It was overflowing, although we had just had it emptied about a year prior to this fiasco.  They came back and emptied it, then returned again, digging a trench to expose the pipes leading from the tank.  They forced water through the pipes.  The “bouchon” would not budge.  They said we would need to dig up the entire system and possibly replace it at great expense.  We were devastated.  We were expecting paying guests who would occupy our vacation  apartment on the first floor.  We couldn’t expect them to put up with an exposed septic tank and trenches and mountains of dirt everywhere.  I was depressed, nervous, and angry. This was not the Provence we had dreamed of.

It was all getting to be too much.  Bob talked of bailing out and moving to Costa Rica.  I nixed that idea.  We don’t speak Spanish, and the move would cost a fortune.  I was ready for an apartment on the coast, although I doubt we could have afforded it.

I pleaded with the septic tank company to try once again to de-bouchon the system.  They obliged, and this time, a miracle.  It worked.  We were saved.

Things seemed to be looking up, then one day our phone went out, and with it the Internet connection.  I called those wonderful folks at France Telekom who told me to unplug everything and restart.  We did this many times to no avail. I called  FT back.  They would send someone, but we would have to wait – two weeks.  I was furious.  In 2010, you have to wait two weeks for someone to come and check out your phone! Unbelievable. Another joy of French country living.  We were without phone and Internet for 17 days, all because the Mistral (yet another Provence pest) had blown the wires down.

Fortunately it’s been a summer without trial and tribulation.  The weather has been good – lots of hot sunshine. That’s what one expects in Provence, but it’s heat without that debilitating humidity, and the evenings and mornings are pleasant, sometimes even cool.

The roof has been repaired. All is bone dry above the septic tank.

And, soon we will have a heat pump installed and the insulation redone, so hopefully we’ll be a bit warmer  — and drier — this winter.