Uncategorized – Page 32 – Tales and Travel

Au Revoir Buddy

I miss you so much, Buddy Boy. And, I am so sorry we had to say Good-bye. But, the tumor in your throat was growing. There was no hope. The vet said you would suffocate – a horrible death. I wanted to spare you that. You were such a loyal, loveable companion, indeed my special buddy.

Buddy was put to sleep on Oct 20, a peaceful, painless death. He was 11 years old, and during those years he went through most of his nine lives. He owes those years to several guardian angels who rescued him.

Chris, an assistant to the military vet in Stuttgart, Germany, trapped Buddy’s mother with seven kittens (including Buddy). They were feral, the mother having been abandoned by a military family who moved back to the states. This is the fate of too many cats on military installations. Chris rescued many starving felines. Buddy and his brothers and sisters, about three months old, were wild, fearful and ferocious. Chris’ mission was to tame them. Wearing extra heavy gloves, she forced the kittens to eat out of her hand, thus becoming accustomed to human contact. It took patience, dedication and time.

Chris knew I had been considering getting another cat to be a companion to my cat Molly. She felt Buddy was special. She wanted him to have a good home. She offered him to me when he was ‘ready” for adoption. He quickly adapted to his new home, becoming affectionate and loving. I was smitten.

Buddy’s second brush with death came just a few months after I got him. We lived in a second floor apt, with a large balcony/terrace adjacent to a giant pine tree. Molly would climb down the tree for outdoor excursions. Buddy did the same, but shortly after his first foray, he did not return. I searched the neighborhood, called, put up signs.

After a lapse of several days, he tried to make his way back up the tree. I was on the balcony and was overjoyed. But, he didn’t make it. A hind leg was dangling from his body. He fell back down and ran away. We spotted him hiding in the backyard, but he wouldn’t let us near him. It was as if he had become feral again. We put a dish of food out and after several tries, managed to throw a blanket over him while he was eating. His leg had been broken, probably caught in a fence, according to the vet.

After that, Buddy became an indoor cat. He had many endearing habits. His favorite pose was lying on his back, his front paws curled up. He loved to get on my lap and knead, cat fashion. And, as a special sign of affection, he liked to chew my hair. He was also a glutton. Buddy devoured all food. He always hung around in the kitchen when I was cooking, and I often spoiled him with bits of meat or fish. He especially loved licking the almost-empty containers of crème fraiche, yogurt, and the bowl after I had whipped cream. He’d end up with a white face.

Buddy’s remarkable and miraculous rescue came many years after his second brush with death. I took him to Sigrid Ruckaberle, the cat lady of Stuttgart, because we were preparing to go on a vacation. Sigrid, like Chris, trapped and rescued many feral cats in military housing areas. She had more than 20 cats herself, all rescues, but she also boarded cats.

I got out of the car in front of her house (about a 1 ½ hour drive from our home) and picked up Buddy’s cage. He pushed the door open, bolted and sped like lightning up the street. The door had obviously not been fastened securely. My heart sank. I knew I would never catch him, and he was so far from home.

Sigrid was also upset, but, she was confident she could catch him. I could not go on vacation knowing that Buddy was wandering in the wilderness, so far away. We canceled the trip, and every day, for 10 days, I drove back to Sigrid’sneighborhood, walked all around, calling Buddy. I knew he would not come, but I thought if he heard my voice he would meow and I could at least locate him. I asked all the neighbors time and time again if they had seen a back cat with a white mark on his chest. They got sick of seeing me, and finally one neighbor got nasty and told me to stop coming on his property. I gave up my search, but continued to be plagued by worry and sorrow.

Sigrid, meanwhile, had been putting out food dishes in several neighborhood locations. The food always disappeared, but any number of cats or wild creatures could have been eating it. She also set cat traps. She caught a hedgehog, but not Buddy.

After six weeks, I had given up hope and set off on a short trip with a friend, still thinking too often about Buddy. When I came home, husband Bob told me to sit down; he had some good news and bad news. I was certain the bad news was that Buddy’s body had been found.

“The good news is that I have a cat outside in a cage. The bad news is that I don’t know if it’s Buddy,” he said. I raced to the cage. It was my Buddy. Sigrid, after all this time and tireless efforts, had caught my baby. I was thrilled, overjoyed, and ecstatic.

Yet, one more time Buddy escaped. We had gone on a vacation and left a young neighbor in charge of feeding Buddy and Molly. I told her she could let Molly out, but not Buddy. When we came home after a week, no Buddy. I quizzed her. She said I had told her that Molly could go out so she left the balcony door open for her. ??? How could she have not realized that Buddy would go out too? Again, I was frantic.

I consulted Sigrid who assured me that he would not venture far. We put food out, it disappeared. After about a week, we saw him. But he always ran from us. Again, he reverted to his feral past. We monitored the food dish. And, we used the blanket trick again. While he was eating, we threw a blanket over him. He was wild. He scratched and bit me. But, once we got him in the apartment, he was his old self again.

Some years later we moved to a rural area of southern France. Here the neighborhood is safe with lots of territory for cats to roam. Buddy was permitted outdoors. He never ventured far, but obviously enjoyed his freedom. He knew the sound of the car. Whenever I returned home after an outing, he would be waiting for me at the edge of the driveway.

Now he’s gone….no friendly cat to welcome me. I miss you, Buddy.

Buddy was the third male cat I have lost to cancer at the age of 11. Molly lived to be 17 ½. I have two young female cats I rescued as kittens from a shelter to replace Molly, but they are completely “sauvage” as the French say. Real outdoor cats that only appear to eat.

As this is Christmas time, this story needs a happy ending. Welcome Sam, a big, sturdy gray tomcat who has been living in the streets of nearby Cereste. Friends Martin and Jessica have been feeding him, but they already have four cats and now a new baby, a beautiful girl named Sam. They could not adopt another cat. Sam (I named him), who is very affectionate and loves to be caressed, needed a home. He’s my Christmas present.

For a tasty holiday dinner, see Holiday Pork Roast under Recipes in the far right column.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL

A Fishy Tale

But, this one is real, genuine.

It’s well known that folks go to extremes and spend big bucks on their pets. Cats, Dogs, Horses, Birds, Guinea Pigs….but goldfish? Read on.

It all started some years ago when friends Mollie and David, who restored a 17^th century house near here, decided to buy a few goldfish for their “bassin” (spring-fed basin). Shortly thereafter they noticed huge herons swooping down on the bassin. The fish were nowhere to be found. They figured they had become bird food. So, they bought a few more, only later to discover the original fishies had just been in hiding.

All survived and multiplied — in profusion. They even named some of the fish: Mister Gold, Mister Silver, Chocolate Drop. Many quadrupled (or more) in size and grew into beautiful, multi-colored specimens. Mollie and David became attached to their underwater pets and proudly showed them off to visitors.

All was not well, however, as it appeared the bassin was losing water. Not great amounts at first. So, they just refilled.

This summer the small leaks grew to rivers of escaping water. The water level was descending at a rapid level. The precious fish were in danger of asphyxiation. No problem. They’d buy an inflatable swimming pool and transfer the fish to a temporary home while they repaired the leaks.

Inflating the pool and filling it were challenging, time-consuming tasks. Meanwhile, water continued to escape from the bassin, so they kept refilling. It was a hectic race to keep the fish underwater. Nerves were on edge. Tension soared. The fight for the fish was grueling.

Once the temporary fish pool was ready, the monumental task of catching the critters was underway. They called in reinforcements to assist, friends Dee and Alan. David got in the bassin and scooped with a net – over and over, then passed the net with his catch to the others who dumped it into the temporary fish pond. There were always those that got away. How many fish were there? The supply seemed endless, mind-boggling. Finally, at a count of 226, they had rescued all the fish. (Happy goldfish obviously have an active sex life.)

At last the fish were safe and they could take a breather and repair the bassin. Or, so they thought. After the trauma and nerve wracking tasks of fighting leaks and catching fish, David was about to enjoy a soothing shower.

Mollie and David are not just fish fanciers. They also have three cats and a dog. Prudence, a big gray feline, came streaking into the house drenched — looking like she stepped out of a cartoon. She was soaked. Mollie quickly realized she had tried to go fishing and fallen into the swimming pool/fish pond. But, how did she get out? Using her razor sharp claws of course, to grab onto the pool’s inflatable rim.

David was diverted from the shower and they raced to the fish pool. Sure enough, it was punctured with tiny holes and water was gushing out. They got the repair kit that came with the pool and started patching – all this long after the sun had gone down. They kept re-pumping the pool. They could not get all the holes sealed. It seemed to be a losing battle. Water was still escaping – overflowing as the pool deflated. Both wet to the bone, they worked furiously until midnight.

Every few hours that night David got up to re-inflate the pool and add more water. Thanks to his diligence, there were no dried fish for breakfast next morning.

Next day they took on the repair of the bassin. It was an all day job, and of course they continually had to refill and re-inflate the swimming pool fish pond to keep the fishes submerged. More stress. More anxiety. Exhaustion. All this to save some goldfish?

As if the fish fiasco was not enough, they had another battle to rage. Droves of nasty wasps had taken up residence under their roof. They dared not go near their swimming pool (a real one for humans). Wasps love to drink swimming pool water and beware if you are in their way. They had to have a crew of men wearing space-like suits come to eradicate the wasps.

The wasps are dead. The pampered fish are alive and well and back in their bassin home – all 226 of them. And, Mollie and David are enjoying a well deserved rest.

Photos by David Regan

Encore America

I’ve lived in Europe for 35 years – and I love it here. But, it’s always interesting to return to the US. This time (May), was a treat with visits to Michigan for my high school reunion, then New Orleans, New York City, Cape Cod and Boston.

During those first few hours after arrival at the Detroit Airport, I felt I was in culture shock. Our first experience with a “native” was the woman driver of our shuttle van who drove us from the airport to the rental car agency. She helped with our heavy suitcases. She was delightful and chatty, and offered advice on rental car procedures. The woman at the car agency was equally as accommodating, going out of her way to see what discounts she could arrange for us, then giving detailed instructions on how to find our way to our destination. During our travels, we often encountered extra friendly and helpful people like these. It’s rare to find such extra “service with a smile” in Europe.

Detroit is car city, so I suppose it’s not unusual to encounter super, super highways – often four lanes in each direction. It all seemed so vast and modern. The buildings along the highways appeared new and sleek. Everything is clean. Our room at a Holiday Inn was another surprise. The room was huge, with a king sized bed, a coffee maker, ironing board and iron, and of course television and Internet. Breakfast, including eggs, was included in the very reasonable price. I guess I’ve lived in Europe too long, but I was in awe of it all.

It’s a treat to be served water in a glass with ice at restaurants and not have to pay for it. And, coffee refills at no extra charge. The coffee may not be the greatest, but you can drink as much as you want. Shopping is another plus. While in Michigan, we visited the Great Lakes Crossing Mall, Michigan’s largest outlet mall. Mind-boggling. Twenty-five stores under one roof. I’m not into power shopping, but prices for clothes, shoes, linens and more are usually much less in the U.S. than in Europe. The only problem these days is bringing it back, but we planned ahead and left extra room in our suitcases, and carried the heavier items with us.

It’s not all paradise. Restaurants are often very loud and noisy, the atmosphere less than inviting for lingering over a delicious meal. In the states, you are not supposed to linger. Usually when dessert is served, you are presented with the check and expected to pay and leave promptly. Not pleasant.

However, reuniting with high school friends after 50 years (I’m old) was more than pleasant. There were only 29 girls in our 1961 graduating class at the Academy of the Sacred Heart in

Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. Four, sadly, are deceased. Fourteen attended the reunion coming from 14 different states and me from France. We had a lovely evening supper at the home of one of my classmates, another evening cocktail party and buffet dinner at the home of one of the women’s amazing 99-year-old mother, then a cocktail party at the school followed by dinner in a restaurant. I am so glad I did not miss the festivities and meaningful visits.

My husband Bob also celebrated a reunion with some of his eight brothers sisters at the home of his sister Kathy who lives in Romeo, Michigan, about an hour from our hotel in Birmingham. Another sister and brother and their spouses drove all the way to Romeo from their homes in Wadsworth, Ohio (a 4-hour one-way trip) to see brother Bob for a day. A great testimonial to family togetherness.

On to New Orleans – a fabulous place. Details will follow in a future blog. Then New York City where my stepdaughter Kellie lives in Soho. My stepson Rob and two step grandsons came

blog5 — Rob, Lang, Kellie, Sam, Bob at Bronx Zoo

from Winchester, Va., to spend four days with us there. We took a ride on the Staten Island ferry, visited the Bronx Zoo, walked and walked, ate great burgers, cooked delicious meals in Kellie’s brand new state-of-art kitchen…New York is exhilarating.

Last stop Cape Cod where Bob’s sister Susan and husband Brian have a beautiful home. Susan was tour guide extraordinaire, driving us all over Cape Cod and Boston. At Provincetown, we joined a whale watching cruise and spotted two whales. We were bowled over by the Cape Cod seafood – delicious lobster, scallops the size of peaches, and a wide variety of fish. Compared to Europe, the prices seemed downright cheap. We took the opportunity to visit nearby Boston where we admired the stunning architecture, followed the Freedom Trail, a walking excursion in the city past historical sites, and, for a special end-of-journey meal, dined at a classy restaurant atop the Prudential Building with spectacular views – courtesy of Brian. Indeed a “bon voyage.”

Noel en Provence

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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Iguazu Falls

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.