With Just A Few Seconds Left on the Clock...

            I’ve been trying to avoid this subject, but today it seems impossible: French politics.  All of France is holding its breath, because… (wait for it), the current President is going to announce his candidature for President.  Qualified candidates have until March 30^th to put their hats into the ring, and most parties have already presented a candidate, so it seems exorbitantly dramatic for the current President to wait so long.  Well, perhaps it’s not just the wait, but the drama behind this.  No one knows how he will announce this, whether it be on the radio, the television, or through a press release, and he’s playing up the uncertainty by being coy with the media and avoiding direct questions.

French Presidential elections start at the end of April.  Unlike in the US, they are a direct vote and consist of two consecutive elections, like a round robin tournament.  All presented candidates are listed in the first election and the two with the most votes make it to the second round.  The winner of that is the President.

In France, the amount of media time each candidate can have is strictly controlled, so until one claim’s candidature, one’s media time is not measured.  It’s simply Presidential coverage, and the amount of Presidential coverage recently has strangely increased.  The President has been on the television discussion the economic crises, visiting failing factories, and has shared with the general public his plans for the upcoming years, such as leaving an aging nuclear plant open, increasing taxes, basing immigration on income, reducing unemployed benefits, and banning homosexual marriage on the bases that it will “blur the image of the institution of marriage”, (regardless that he’s been in this institution three times.)  Every tactic to draw attention to himself has been employed, and details, we’re told, will be released when an official candidature is announced.

“Official Candidature” is when the clock starts on how much media time is officially provided.  It’s a moment I anticipate to stop all the silly drama and scripted attention getting. It’s a moment to place all players on the same level playing field facing the same time left clock.  So, until then, I hold my breath, practice my look of utter surprise, and wait for the inevitable.

Then, I’m pulling out my stopwatch.

Mountains of Distraction

From behind the computer, I often look out over the terrace to the facing mountains.  This is my distraction when I can’t get anything done.  I daydream about most anything as the scene changes with the seasons.  Sometimes the mountains are covered in luscious green vegetation and other times I see ranging rivers swelled from the spring rains.  Right now, I see rocky outcrops peeking through bare trees and old footpaths covered with snow.  They leave white lines that jog up the mountain and then disappear.  These paths are rarely used today, but they were commonly used even a generation ago between mountain villages.

The age of our village is not certain, but it dates back at least 600 years. It was created by people who left the plain below to escape the plagues that ravaged the towns.  At that time, mountain dwellers were pretty hostile to newcomers for fear of what diseases they’d bring.  The footpaths were a way to get from one mountain town to the other without going down to the diseased plain.  Isolation was protection and the footpaths were taken by only those who knew them.

As the bird flies, the neighboring villages are not that far, just a few miles away; but to walk the paths between the villages would take all morning.  Then, of course, there was the return trip home.  Village parties filled the summer months and people were known not to leave until first light so the paths could be seen as they returned to take care of their livestock.  Marriages occurred between mountain villages and ancestors from these unions still remain.  These are the smaller parts of history that are still verbal and a run in with an old village inhabitant will confirm certain stories and conjure up new one.  It leaves a lot to the imagination, and perhaps is why I often find myself looking out towards them and not getting much done.

A Whole New Measure

            I was out yesterday bringing in wood for the heater.  Out woodpile is on the other side of the garden, so I bring it to the house in a wheel barrel; it is just easier and faster than loading up my arms or a carrying it in a bag.  I thought, “Two full wheel barrels should be enough”, and it was.  But that got me thinking on how my standards of measure have changed.

            Back in elementary school, I, like my cohorts, was taught the metric system because as we were told, “it’s going to take over the world.”   Our 12 inch rulers were going to be a thing of the past and gallon jugs of milk were going to shrink down to liters.  Well, that didn’t happen.  The only thing left over from that metric wave is now Coca-Cola comes in 2 liter plastic bottles instead of 8, 12 ounce glass bottles.  I think we kind of missed the point on that one.

            But now, I live in the metric system.  My milk comes in liters, my flour by the kilo, and my butter is dished out in grams.  For the life of me, I cannot eyeball 200 grams of flour like I can with a cup a sugar, but that’s nothing a good kitchen scale cannot fix; however, this is not the new measure that has given me pause.  It’s the measures we use every day: the wheel barrel, the bucket, the crate, and the handful.  These are measures that seem to go hand in hand with living in the country.  I don’t weigh how many tomatoes I picked from the garden, I gathered a bucket full; I don’t measure how much wood I bring in for the day, I bring in a wheel barrel; I don’t count how many potatoes I have, I have a crate full.  These are rudimentary measures, but they’re practical, and they get the job done.

            I’m sure many would laugh at this and think I’ve slid down an evolutionary slope that I could never climb back up, but I disagree.  Measurements are a tool.  They were established to make our life easier and to fulfill our needs.  It’s no longer the king’s foot that decides for us, but our everyday needs that dictate what we do, and these simple standards of measure, like a bowl full of sugar, reflects that. 

I See A Little Light

In the middle of winter, something amazing happens – the mimosa trees bloom.  Being from Chicago, I’m only used to the color gray in February, so I was naturally drawn to blast of color, sometimes towering 30 or more feet into the air.

Initially from Australia, the trees were introduced to Europe in 1824 and appeared on the Mediterranean coast in 1864.  Their branches are filled with small, yellow pom-pom like flowers that give a splash of color to the otherwise colorless countryside.

The flowers have an extremely light, floral fragrant and are symbolic of gold and the sun.  The mimosa is also the image of a triumphant life and victory over evil, which seems appropriate for the season’s first flower that brings the hope of warmer temperatures and spring’s arrival.

Vive le printemps…

Just because an audio is needed....

And Then There Was Snow...

View from my front door last night.

I’m beginning to question if this is really Southern France.

From Moscow With Love

In addition to the 50 mph winds that are blowing, France and much of Europe is being touched by the Moscou Paris, or the massive freezing air current that travels west from Siberia.  It doesn’t happen often, so discussion about it is limited, but it has brought low teens and single digit temperatures to our normally mild-weathered village. It sits over the country, bringing snow and record cold to all the regions, and it’s even touched Italy and Turkey, closing down airports and causing major traffic chaos.

 Meterologists say the Moscou-Paris is a strong air current that is somewhat difficult to predict.  They are not too sure how long it will stay.  The Acores air current, which comes from the Atlantic, and bring sun and warm weather to most of France, is not strong enough to push the cold air westward.

            In February 1956, the Moscou-Paris arrived in France and stayed for a month.  The Seine in Paris was frozen and snow was seen as far south as Provence.  For now, meterologists are thinking the cold air will stay until next week, but, that depends on which one you speak to.  Some have giving up on any predictions and say it’s here to stay for a while.

The Winter Winds

Winter continues to rear its ugly head; record cold temperatures are appearing all across France and Europe.  Being from Chicago, I am used to cold winters, but winter here is not just about cold temperatures, but the wind.  The wind here is notorious.  It whips at hurricane speeds, rattles windows, and knocks down everything in its path.  As Christophe says, “If it’s not build with the wind in mind, it will just break.”  And he’s right.  I’ve seen fences blown over and clay tiles ripped away from rooftops.  It brings blowing snow from 40 miles away, and is a topic of discussion that bring contempt and frustration.

            But oddly enough, for those who grew up with it, there is an affection for the wind.  In Languedoc, the south east region of France, the wind coming from the North-Northwest is called La Tramontane, which is said to blow in cycles of three; 3 days, 6 days, or 9 days.  The wreckage a storm leaves is consequential, but natives cannot imagine living without this metrological force.

            About ten years ago, a study was done to install windmills on the crest that surrounds the village.  It only seemed logical to harvest this force as a renewable energy source. After numerous failed attempts to correctly measure the wind’s speed, the project was eventually abandoned because the winds were too strong.  The last recorded wind speed was 112 mph, before the machine snapped in two.  But this force has been known for centuries; the village, which was built in the Middle Ages, has neither a door nor a window facing the wind.

The winds are often at their most violent during winter.  So, once again, I’ll hunker down in front of the chimney until it passes and think about those dreary Chicago winters with nostalgia.