Random experiences of late, in and around, Montpellier, and a little bit beyond. As always in these cases, it’s E.B. White style.
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Ain’t no sunshine
Annie and Catherine are in Canada for two months.
I’ll stay here to hold the fort, work, no traveling. I have to take advantage of having the house to myself, a rare thing. I get to catch up on the backlog: writing, moving dirt and rocks, weeding, sitting in the leather chair reading, swimming, playing NRBQ or Bill Evans.
Update: no longer true. My company wants me to come to Switzerland for a few weeks, so I’ll have to deal with traveling in Europe in August. But they’ll pay for first class on the TGV, so that’s okay.
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Maison
Been in our house three years as of July 4th. It still bends my brain that we own a house in France. Almost all interior and exterior renovations are done, and now the focus is on the yard, especially the side yard, where there’s all sorts of junk laying around: old hoses, discarded lumber, one of those Buckminister Fuller geodesic cat port-a-potties, plastic plant flats, and similar; it looks like trailer park in Appalachia.
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Doomed
The apparatus that gets the most attention and use at my gym is the cell phone. The cell phone curl and hold is the most popular move, followed by the cell phone press. More reps and moves are done with the cell phone than anything else. Well, not everyone; me, and a few others over 50, aren’t in need of the digital pacifier.
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Breakfast of champions
One day I’m at the small store of the local produce seller, William. A very old man comes in, greets us, buys a single chocolate croissant, then leaves, walking across the street to the Arc en Ciel cafe/bar. William explains that the gentleman is 92 years old. Most mornings he comes in, buys one chocolate croissant, then goes across the street. At the cafe he orders a tall glass of pastis. He eats the chocolate croissant as he slowly drinks the pastisse. Not a bad way to start the day for a 92 year old; gotta wonder about lunch and dinner.
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Wine walk
On a Saturday Annie and I joined Latetia, Maria, and Corrine on a walk-eat-drink. It started and ended at the Chateau Camplazens near Armissan, about an hour’s drive southwest from Montpellier, just over the department line in Aude (our department is Herault).
The walk was six kilometers along dirt roads through vineyards, with views of the inland hills, and once in a while, in the other direction, were views of the sea. At various points along the way there was an array of wine vendors, freely pouring as much as you liked. The wine and the walking were fine, but given the heat, I skipped some of the dishes: I love oysters, but with the sun beating down, it felt slightly risky. And the heavy, saucy pork tenderloin was good, but it’s a dish for December, not June.
Later, as we were walking, I pointed to some inland hills, and asked if those were a particular wine growing region. Corrine immediately corrected me. No. Pointing first to the southwest, then more northly, like a clock hand going from 7 to 10 o’clock, she said Fitou, then Corbiéres (a current favorite), and last Minervois. Got it.
Side note: when we arrived in the morning we were directed where to park, and I, as the driver, was given some plastic envelope. Latetia explained that it was not a condom, but instead a blow in the tube breath test, to make sure your blood alcohol level was not over the limit.
Additional note: until 2020, the French law required car owners to carry these same breath tests in the car.
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To the people no power
I woke up the very moment the power went out. It was around 02:00, and the portable rolling air conditioner in our bedroom had shut off. The sudden silence disturbed my sleep, and I immediately went outside to see if it was just our house. It was dark up and down the street.
After a wet, cool Spring, the canicules (heat waves) were back. We had been running the air conditioners continuously for at least two days, as had the rest of France. About six hours later, the power came back on.
Two days later, about 07:00, the power went out again. EDF, the utility company, said it would take about fourteen hours to restore power. It was too hot to work in my office, and since my computer battery would last only a few hours, Annie suggested I find a co-working office and just set up there for the day. I wouldn’t have my full array of screens, but at least I could get some things done.
There are at least a dozen co-worker places in Montpellier, and as I rode towards the train station, I went into the first one I passed. Flex-O was in one of the many new buildings going up aroung the train station. The receptionist asked me what I’d need – just a desk and power outlet. She took me to a table that could seat four, I would be the only one there all day, then showed me a room I could go if I had to make extended phone calls.
The main room where I worked was open, high ceilings, and the other tables of four had only one occupant. There were also diner style booths, but the only time these were used was when someone took a nap there in the late afternoon.
While I didn’t have any Bose headphones, tattoos, hispter beard and haircut, and my cell phone was quite old, nonetheless for a few hours I was a (tragically) hip digital nomad, my computer my office, the world my home, free from the Man, charting my own destiny. I could blog, vlog, react, influence, podcast. Sure.
A few hours after I returned home that night, the power came back on.
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The waiting room
The atmosphere of a doctor’s waiting room depends on the specialty.
My general practitioner (the same Corrine who set me straight about the wine regions) has an office in the centreville of Montpellier. The exterior is in the style old, not maintained early 20th century, the interior, newer, but drab. I rarely need to see my GP. Most of the time it’s for something as simple as a doctor note. In France, if you are absent from work, you must provide a justificative – a note from your doctor. It’s quite stupid. I asked her about this once, and she agreed that it was a dumb rule. She think the intention is to create more business for doctors. C’est la France.
The orthopedic surgeon office is a modern and new. The feeling in the waiting room is modern and new. Patients have bionic boots on their ankles, velcro and neoprene covered elbows, fully functioning and articulating artificial lower legs. There’s never been a better time to have a sports inury.
I’m on my third orthopedic surgeon. First it was Dr. Guillaume Lonjon (spine), then Dr. Etienne Maury (knee), and this time it’s Dr. Benjamin Degorge (elbow). Soon I might need to go see the shoulder specialist. If they had some sort of rewards card, after my tenth event, the eleventh would be free.
The neurologist’s waiting room is quiet, uncertain, tentative. If the orthopedic surgeon is a sort of mechanical engineer to the body, where all conditions can be observed (x-rays and so on) and generally well understood, the neurologist experience is different. The neurologist is the electrical engineer, the conditions are hidden, subtle, harder to see, and often, not well understood.
When I arrived there was a middle-aged man in a wheel chair. He greeted me when I walked into the waiting room, even as his arm and legs continually twichted, and he could not keep his head still. After a few minutes a man came out of an office, dressed like he was ready to play tennis. However, walking he always lead with his right foot, then the left foot caught up. He right arm has sports tape on it, but it mostly hung at his side.
A little later a woman, I’m guessing from Morocco, walked in with her young daughter, maybe ten years old. I overheard the daughter, clearly nervous, asking her mother about the appointment, why the doctor wanted to see her.
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Of spas and thongs
In the late winter, within a two week period, Annie and I visited the eastern and western mountain ranges that bracket France.
In mid-February we took the train to the Pyrennes, to Ax-les-Thermes, a spa town, where the water comes out of the ground at 70°C and the town smells like sulfur. There’s also a ski resort, but we did not ski as there had not been much snow. Instead, we tested out some snow shoes, which I now have mixed feelings about.
In Ax we went to Les Bains du Couloubret. Inside there’s a large warm, indoor pool which extends to the outside. There’s also a dry sauna, a steam room, and a cold plunge. My favorite was a room that was a cross between the sauna and steam room: the room was terraced with large, texture tile steps, wet and warm to lay on. Likewise the air was warm and moist, but not opaque as in the steam room. It was the right mix of warm surfaces, warm air, and moisture. I could have stayed there all day.
Afterwards Annie had arranged for a massage, where you’re covered, then rubbed with a sort of warm, gritty mud. That was all nice, but it did not start off well. The lady attendant told me I had to take off my bathing suit, handed me a package and told me I could only wear this…thing. It was a sort of thong, which covers your Johnson, like a face mask, but not. It was really not great at all. I got through it all okay, enjoyed the mud, but afterward went to the warm, terraced room to recuperate.
The following weekend the whole gang went to Thonon-les-Bains, on the other side of France. The backstory is one of Annie’s cousins, Charles from Canada, met Emily (French) while walking the pilgrimage in Spain. Long story short, they now live together in Thonon. It is a beautiful town, on what they French call Lac Leman and everyone else calls Lake Geneva. Towards the Chablais Alps, we hiked one day, then skied one day, then spent half a day at the Val Vital spa/bains. It was very similar to the baths in Ax, except there was no terraced room. The cold plunge was exceptional, better than the one in Ax. A large, stainless steel cylinder was set in the ground, and you went down a ladder into 15°C water – brisk and perfect!
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Welcome, traveler
As always, there have been visitors. Annie’s second cousin, Leonie (daughter of Charles), was here with her boyfriend Fred. Leonie is one to swim whenever she can. Being a thoughtful host, I couldn’t let her swim alone. So despite it being March, we swam in the small lake at the pont du Diable, then another day, in the Mediterranean at the plage du Maguelone.
Kieran’s girlfriend, Liv, was here for a few weeks in February. They met a few years ago when she was studying at the university of Montpellier. And now, within the past two weeks, she was here again. She’s decided to ditch Albany and move back to France, and look for work. Apparently this has something to do with Kieran. She’s staying with friends in Grasse, for now.
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It’s the Venice of…
Anything with a canal running through a slightly built up area runs the risk of being named so. Annie and I spent a weekend in Martigues, which did have some canals in the old city. It was a cool spring day, hot in the protected areas, almost cold out in the wind. Happily there was no sign of Jeff Bezos.
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Sand Stones, sun, sea….
I don’t care for Palavas, the beach closest to us. Apartment buildings, modern and dull, run right up to the beach. I am particularly sensitive to this, because a friend on social media often posts pictures of one of my favorite Atlantic beaches, Bethany Beach: the old, pale board walk leading to the sand, the sea grass, the slanted hurricane fence, in the background the sun rising over the ocean.
So I avoid Palavas. This morning I rode the path along the Les (named a river but really more a stream) almost to Palavas, then took a right at the Canal du Rhône a Sète. I rode the towpath until Maguelone, then cut over to the coast, to the Plage Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone.
The shore is rocky, the stones were already warm. On this day there were waves breaking, that’s not always the case. It was pleasing, the breaking waves, a sound I had not heard in a long time. My surf shorts were already on, and I pulled on a tight, white, long sleeve rash guard. After the heat of the ride, the water felt cold. A few steps into the water was a low point, a trough, then it was only a few feet deep for 50 meters, then the bottom dropped away.
I swam straight out: some freestyle, a bit of breast stroke, not too much back stroke because of my right shoulder. I stopped, treaded water a while. The water was translucent green, perfect. I rolled over on my back, sculling slightly, flat in the water, open to the sky. The water’s salty, cool, and green, the forever sky is blue. The world is going to hell, but for a few minutes, it’s not. Isak Dinesen: the cure for anything is salt water – Sweat, Tears, or the Sea.
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