Troglodyte: It's in the hole.

Hundreds of years ago, troglodytic peasants, using simple
tools and sweat, cut stones to make an attractive
backdrop for this sign.

As it turns out, "troglodyte" doesn't only refer to pale, warty trolls with bad teeth and few brain cells. According to our household expert, the word comes from Greek, meaning, "get inside a hole." And this is what we did. For the final excursion with the AHA program (which also included Château de Brissac in the afternoon) we got on the big bus and went 25 miles southwest and 25 feet deep to the village troglodytique Rochemenier (rosh-men-yay). While much of Rochemenier is at "top-soil level," the local farmers of yester-century, 13th for starters, dug out big pits and then tunneled laterally under their fields. The relatively soft tufa and fulan limestone they were cutting into is the bulk of most Loire Valley châteaux. But, unlike larger regional caves and quarries, the Rochemenier folks maintained a hole-istic perspective--staying focused on their farming, using the stone and resulting caverns for their own homes and structures. They also crushed up some tufa for soil enhancer.

We all live in a fulan sub-terrain, a fulan sub-terrain, a fulan
sub-terrain... (Ivy under ivy in the shadowy tunnel -- this
photo-shoot was not in her contract).

After ten minutes in trogo-land, I began to wonder (as I assume anyone just like me would have) if I could live there. It's surprisingly comforting space. After hundreds of years, the landscaping has matured nicely. And, despite below-grade elevation, drainage issues are minimal. But, in the end, there just aren't enough outlets and counter-space is scarce.

Bread ovens though -- they keep following me. As it is with a cave house, built in appliances are standard. And as for the built-in bread ovens of troglo-town... I am totally down with it. It was bad enough when I just wanted the simple, free-standing, masonry patio model. But now I've made the mental upgrade to the cave-man edition.

Next stop for the big bus was our troglodytic lunch restaurant, Le Clos de Roches. While Google translates the name as "the enclosed rocks," I'm guessing it's closer to "the place where we are being inside of the rocks around us." As you might guess, the staff was very down to earth, encouraging us to explore the space and even get up close to the bread oven. The oven was fired up and soon producing baskets of fouaces -- rectangular puffy bread which break open like pita, steaming and ready for troweling on rillettes (ree-yets) -- a rough mix of shredded meat (chicken, pork, whatever's around) and lard. Rillettes is the ubiquitous, always at-hand, hors d'oeuvre (a term never used here in France). It's like the mortar between square meals. It shouldn't shock you to hear that connoisseurs insist rillettes is improved with butter. The traditional fare kept coming along with the vin, as if dripping straight into our stoneware pitchers from the grapevines growing overhead.
More photos troglodytique and of Château de Brissac HERE.

Back above ground, life as seen from the balcony of our third floor (second étage) apartment continues to be full of bustle and moderate hustle. Staying with the story of stones, "our" boulangerie finally got new bricks laid where work related to the big Tramway project had left a conspicuous patch of asphalt under their outside seating area.

As an energetic crew of four 20-somethings got to work busting up pavement and heaving buckets of rubble into the back of their truck, I was about to tell Ella, Ivy, and Jack to take note of this living illustration of why it's important to stay in school--lest life's options be reduced to a short list including picking up and putting down rocks. But then I remembered we're in Europe where it would be perfectly normal for a college graduate to take a hard-labor job. Because, Europeans unlike Americans, understand that education isn't just about hooking up with a better job than you could get otherwise, it's about intellectual growth and quality living, about preparing citizens for democracy, about making sure you know you're just a speck in history and only slightly more in life, and of course, preparing you for that standardized test that will determine at age 16 if you switch from holding a pen to holding a shovel. And since I don't know if any of that is true, it just proves my point. Stay in school, kids (otherwise you might find yourself in a foreign country, unable to speak the language, cruising for cheap laughs on a blog).

When you fix the bricks in front of the boulangarie/patisserie you get
your just desserts.

But wait, maybe all the boulangeries are re-tooling. Up the rue at the center of centre ville, Place du Ralliement, our boulanger/crepe maker/assault-victim friend totally remodeled -- and even changed the name of the place from Le Grain de Malice (ironic given the recent sandwich-throwing face-punching incident?) to an understated printing of the owners' names: "Alexandra et Denis CANTON." Can you do that? It seems like now I'd have to make an appointment to buy a brioche. What are we supposed to call it--the whole name? "Alexendra and Denis's?" No because the French don't have apostrophe's. Maybe just "CANTON?" Maybe "the old Malice."

Boulangerie goes monochrome. 

And now that the whole Place du Ralliement, along with the Tramway project in general, is finishing up the final touches (planters, fountains, lights, etc.) the event schedule is stacking up. Saturday before last -- and here comes the transportation segue -- was the Fête de Velo (bike party). Despite a lot of promotion, it wasn't well attended. Maybe it's because bikes are already such a common mode of transportation here or maybe it's just because it just wasn't attendance-worthy. Wanting to see if any French tricks they might have up their sleeve for promoting "alternative" transportation, I stuck around about 95 percent longer than I would have otherwise. That actually wasn't very long since, despite being a one-day, Saturday public event, it started at 10:00 AM but then shut down from 12:00 to 2:00 for lunch. One noticeable difference though is basic investment in production. The City of Angers is a big promoter of biking, walking, and transit. Hoping the crowds would be on hand, they hired a medium production-value educational act -- a staged game show emceed by a TV personality of some renown. Our family was exactly half of the total audience. Despite this, when it came time to grab someone "off the street," they actually ran over to the side and snared a woman who was walking by (not in too much of a hurry apparently).

It was time to play... Suer Contre Essence (Sweat Against Gasoline).
1) Vincent Chapel opens to an invisible throng. 2) The guest hair-dresser/
professional cyclist is interviewed. 3) They tag team the woman off the
street about her transportation habits. 4) Her weight in carbon
emissions is pulled on a bike-powered sled into a leaf-blower (solar
powered, I'm sure).

1

Angers Tram as seen from: 1) Place du Ralliement, 2) our
balcony, & 3) the Maine River (while rowing).

Transportation and folk-art?
Everyone loves the Tramway. The run-up to the June 25 start of service (which we'll miss) is a blur of activity. More fixtures are being installed and adjusted everywhere: ticket machines, railing, street signs, yada, yada, yada. Of course the trams themselves are running up and down our street all day, training drivers, testing systems. It's crazy busy. Crazy mostly because, on our Rue de la Roë section of the route, the large rail cars run on what's otherwise a bustling pedestrian corridor. Look out peeps! The many temporary signs that have put up around the cross streets remind people of their new responsibilities: Use prudence! Have good reflexes!

The Tram was actually as much the star at the bike party as bikes -- because it's all part of the same big plan. At the City of Angers' Velo Cite table they were handing out as much Tram schwag as bike schwag. We loaded up on pop-out card-stock models of the Tram which "we" were quick to convert into -- what else -- a Tram mobile.

Constructed of heavy-duty button thread,
shish kebab skewers, and Loire Valley wine
corks, the Tram Mobile is now permanently
installed at 33 Rue de la Roë and available
for viewing by appointment. 

The other piece of schwag, just about gone by the time we walked by, was the Tram-kini. Apparently, the Tramway was partially funded by the IMF. But either way, France just knows how stay on message.

Tram-kini®

And this is probably a good transition to the next blog-post (since I've obviously hit bottom). Yes, please tune in next time when I'll report on our trip to the beach in, Cinq à l'île or No Sand in my Cheese Sil Vous Plaît.

Ass Kebab

As Will.i.am would have to
ask, "What u gon 'do with all
that ass?..."

Up the rue, the middle eastern restaurant Saf Saf's menu abbreviates assiette (plate) as "Ass:" In an admittedly Beavis & Butthead way, I usually mutter "Ass kebab" when I walk by. It's therapeutic. You should try it. And before we leave Angers, I should really stop there, drop 7€, and dig in.

Cleaned up and ready for
a big night, silly wabbit
lays out in front of
cutting-board kitties.

Well, I finally did what Elmer Fudd could never do--killed the wabbit. I tracked it down at Super U, the supermarché near Jack's soccer club. Not that I've been tip-toeing around France with my twusty whyfull but by swiping my debit card at the tri-lingual self-checkout console, I directly participated in Bugs's demise. If "follow the money" means anything, I have bunny blood on my hands. Rabbits (lapin) are in the meat section between Foghorn Leghorn (poulet) and Porky Pig (porc). Like French poultry, the rabbit's head is left on (because otherwise you'd have to suspect the butcher is trying to sell you a large gopher). This did haunt me a little as Jack and I rode home on our bikes with plastic-wrapped rabbit in my backpack. Jack asked what was for dinner. I told him I bought a rabbit. "You mean there's a dead rabbit in your backpack!?" It's all about what you're used to I guess. Even though I bought a whole rabbit, I baked it in parts per the instructions of a very typical French method: butter (duh), onions, dijon, thyme and, towards the end, crème fraiche. It was hoppin' good. More rabbit pictures (warning--head included) here.

Our found object: Boar tusk or
cup-handle trauma survivor? 

Staying on topic (sort of) Jack and I were down by the river last week and found a mammalian jaw bone.  It had a perfectly arced piece of what looked like the handle of a coffee cup fused into its skelecature. I even suggested to Jack that this poor animal must have chewed up a coffee cup at a young age and amazingly healed, incorporating the glassware into its body (did I say I was homeschooling my children?-- what an ass kebab). We took it home and showed it to Kristin who saw the obvious boar tusk. Well sure, that's what it was. Maybe we can make some scrimshaw earrings or an eyebrow stud? But then just today I heard one of Kristin's students saying, "...they're scary and they have orange teeth..." It turned out she was talking about nutria, big rat-like animals that live in swamps near her home in Oregon. But this (thanks Wikipedia) indeed turns out to be our jawbone. Nutria have not only been transplanted to North America from South America by "fur-farmers," but to Europe, too. And here in France, they're called ragondin. And while they're generally considered a destructive invader, the vermin can apparently be converted to pâté.

Likely suspects: Wild boar (mounted at Chateau d Brisac),  ragondin
(mounted at Universite Bordeaux) and Samson, smiting 1,000 men with an
ass's jawbone (the ultimate ass-kebab).

Chartres: Last weekend (a week ago now) we trained northeast to Chartres for a sunny day in another one of these beautiful cities--complete with the archetypal Gothic cathedral, charmingly arrayed cobblestones, canals, and half timbers... you know the drill.  For lunch we met up with Fritz and Marilyn who are living in Lyons for a few months. After our pizzas, salads, and vin, we all hauled our assiettes up the 302 steps to the top o' the cathedral spire. OMG... I just made the connection between the stairway in a spire and the word "spiral." Is this architectural feature the "metaphunctional" origin of the word? One can never find a linguist when one needs one. Chartres pictures (warning, heads included).

Our tour guide demonstrated some
different ways to tend bar. 

Cointreau: Some destinations are far. Some are not. Apparently, I had to travel to Angers, the home of Cointreau, to have my first taste of this extra special elixir. While most of the AHA excursions are about regional culture and texture, this one is more about local flavor. Since you can visit Cointreau's website yourself, I, like a producer of essence-flavored beet alcohol, will boil it down for ya. A long time ago, a guy in Angers was losing money trying to sell cherry liqueur and so switched to orange peels. Around the same time he married someone with a lot of money and started spending most of it on marketing. This worked very well. The tradition continues. Let's drink some. Don't miss the gift shop.

The creepy guy with the white neck
ruffle (a symbol of purity) was the
first to give Cointreau street cred.

Initially considered a digestif, some consider it an aperitif. Today the company just wants you to know that Cointreau is the sophisticated drink of charismatic women -- charismatic women like their new "brand ambassador," Dita von Teese (pictured above). Cointreau is not inexpensive however. But if the price were lower, you might think sluts drank it. A few more Cointreau pictures.

Transportation: Thanks to the kind assistance of people we've met here, Friday night's return from gymnastics is the only weekly gym-trip we still need to make by bus. Kristin or I take the number 1 out there and return with E & I for dinner. As I waited for the 7:39 at the République stop, a woman stopped and asked, "Êtes-vous en attendant le bus?"
I heard "bus" so I said, "Oui." She said something else. I delivered my traditionally convincing apology for having no French to speak of/with. But thankfully she persevered. Apparently, earlier in the day, a bus driver had been roughed up so all the bus drivers stopped working. I've since found out a few more details but, that was the basic message the good samaritan was able to convey with effective hand gestures and carefully selected cognates (though I am pretty sure she said ass-kebab).
It just so happened that we were having some friends over for light fare and Cointreau margaritas, so site-director Sue and Kristin worked two phones, texting and calling contacts at the gym to find Ella and Ivy a ride before all the potential drivers went home. In the nick of time they found a new carpool and our brush with French labor action was mitigated. And so, we commenced with fromage, pain, crudités, and refining our sophisticated charismas.

Bon appétit.

Swiss train 65 minutes late--triggers avalanche of simple adjustments

Waking across Angers' new Tramway
bridge, Papa's got a brand new [used,
-man] bag.

It's been a longer pause in blogging than usual. In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that I've been wearing a man-bag. Maybe it's slowing me down. I picked it up at a second-hand  store in Bellingham five or six years ago. It's an original Brentley (you know, Bellingham's own maker of bags & backpacks that became BrentHaven, contracted its production to Chinese factories, and now only sells computer bags over the internet.) Maybe my bag was originally sold as a fishing creel or a unisex blowdryer caddy. Either way, the dimensions don't fully comply with standard dimensions for euro-metric man accessories. And its too small for a blowdryer and my plug converter.

High-speed rail agent tells Kristin
how to take the low-speed bus
to our complementary six-hour
vacation rental at Montparnasse.

It's true. Our return train out of Geneva Friday evening left 30 minutes late and dealt with consequential delays along the rest of the route. And this of course means that all your long-held notions of Swiss trains and punctuality are dashed. To be fair, it was a French train. But I can't be neutral and I must be clear: it maybe sorta coulda been a Swiss problem that caused the French train to be late. Either way, we missed our Paris connection to Angers--the last run of the night. When the conductor checked our tickets and saw our final destination, she informed us (Kristin) that we'd all be getting a complementary hotel room in Paris. Check that -- two rooms. The bad news: Jack and the rest of us would miss his Saturday soccer tournament in St. Malo--a trip that depended on leaving Angers the next morning at 7:30 AM in our a rental car. We'd also planned on leaving from St. Malo after the tournament and heading to one of the Channel Islands (Guernsey, or was it Jersey?) for the night and some of Sunday. Oh well. We managed to let go of our anticipation of another healthy dose of mussels and fries and a half day milling about in an English speaking country. And for Ivy and Ella, the abbreviated night's stay at Novotel Montparnasse turned out to be one of the excursion's highlights (even at the tender young age of 13, they're enamored with modern bathroom fixtures). SNCF (the French rail agency) even included the hotel's breakfast buffet in our voucher. When the TGV is late, they own it. Kristin tried to convince the SNCF agent that we'd be fine with spending all of Saturday in Paris and taking the same late-evening train home but, for some reason, they were required to put us in the next available seats.

I thought it would be a veggie

pie. When you don't speak

the native tongue, you may
end up eating it.

But back up, back up... Geneva was a great time! We spent three nights with Bonnie, Niall and their two daughters,  Rowan (5) and Fiona (2.5) at their place in Veyrier, just east of town nestled up against the French border. Rowan and Fiona got us all caught up on princesses, the yes-no game, Youtube princess videos, cache-cache, unicorn mosaics, and princess rolling luggage. You think you know all that stuff because your own kids were five not too long ago but this isn't true. And a lot of this new information came in handy for the final day of our visit when we stayed in during the morning rain and watched the royal wedding. Oh to be on the same side of the Atlantic as William and what's-her-name on their special day. I shan't forget it. As soon as the splendid, undeniably perfect dress stepped out of the car, Jack and I headed out for a quick lunch in the village: $27 personal pizzas. That Geneva is a pricey place. But we were feeling royal and it was a splendid and undeniably perfect pizza (since we didn't know where to look for a properly prepared kidney pie).

Whilst in the Alps, Bonnie & Niall drove us all out to the French town of Chamonix where we boarded a rack-and-pinion train for the accent to Mer de Glace - a large but rapidly shrinking glacier on the French side of Mont Blanc. Mont Blanc itself was shrouded in clouds blanc. But what the sky may have hidden was made up for by the efforts of Compagnie du Mont Blanc who, every year, drills a new ice tunnel into the base of the Mer de Glace and outfits it with multi-colored lights, a non-slip felt floor, and quirky exhibits of department-store mannequins posing as 19th century mountain folk.

Ella deep in the Mer de
Glace ice tunnels, 2011

Steve Austin, a man barely

alive, pursues Sasquatch
through the oft-forgotten
ice tunnels of Southern
California in 1976.

Frozen in time:
19th century mountain
cook works the
ice oven?

The week's main domestic development, as well as the gratuitous diversion into transportation, is bikes. During Jack's day-long soccer tournament Sunday before last, we were talkin' 'bout bikes with his teammate Alex's parents, Guy and Alison. Remembering that they had three older bikes in their garage loft, they had us over after the games and set us up. A couple of days later, Kristin and I (in another process involving multiple visits, new documents, but amazingly didn't require photographs) managed to acquire two bikes from the City of Angers' VeloCité free bike-loan program.

Here parked at the 3-day old bike
racks below our apartment, Pappa
(& Mamma)got a brand-new
ride(s).

They've been supplying bikes to residents (limited to six months total per person) since 2004 and now have over 20,000 bikes in circulation. The current fleet (the latest batch is painted in an array of modified rainbow primary colors to match the new Tramway brand) are simple yet complete 'round-town cruisers: step-through three-speeds (internal hub) with full metal fenders, chain guard, front cargo basket, generator powered rear and front lights,  heavy-duty U-lock, kick-stand, and a bell.

On the way back from Ecouflant, we
discovered that this trail goes all the
way to Angers. Better.

With five bikes "in the house" our geographic and experiential range has been greatly increased. On Tuesday afternoon, while Ella and Ivy were at gymnastics, Kristin, Jack, and I found a route up the east side of the Maine river to Ecouflant, the town I often row to. The bike routes labeled on the official Loire a Velo map looked indirect so, armed with my trusty GPS and its recently upgraded Euro street-layer, I navigated a beautifully efficient route to our "trail head." With the glint and crunch of broken glass and charred remains of burned furniture under our tires, we skirted a large industrial zone and dipped down through a sort of trailer park without wheels conspicuously accented with pieces of old carpet that softened its foreboding paint-to-rust ratio. If it spoke anything, it said, "better not to stop for a picture." But, c'est pas grave, as they say here. We were soon joined up with a shoreline trail pedaling past alternating views of heron; lawn-chair fishermen; a half-dressed couple enjoying a picnic of orange soda, whisky, and Lays; and other bucolic fauna and frolic.

Inner tubing on the Maine river.

Our other two family bike rides have also followed the river--one south along the west shore (almost to the intersection with the Loire but we had to fix a flat tire and hurry back ahead of a northbound thunder storm) and another west to íle Saint-Aubin (which included a trip on a very small ferry where the operator pulls the barge across the tributary by tugging on a fixed cable with his hands). Íle Saint-Aubin provides a good segue to the next topic--really good bread.

Oven inside

Oven outside

Really good bread is not a new theme for this blog. And, it's near the top of the list of things we'll be sad to leave behind. Out in the middle of the island, on the small area of high-ground that isn't covered with water in winter, the City of Angers has recently finished restoring a very old farm house. As if it had its own gravity, I found myself standing in front of a wonderfully restored outdoor bread oven. When I started taking pictures, one of the volunteers came up to me and launched into a fast paced French-planation. I had to interrupt with the bad news that I didn't speak French (which I usually deliver in such unintentionally bad French that people are doubly convinced that I "speak" the truth). Oven-buff laughed and, continuing with French, said something about Anglais--apparently reciprocating with bad news of his own. But, obviously proud of this monument to bread, which I had to believe he'd been personally involved with, he made sure I took pictures of the re-bricked interior and a couple of other important features. Another warning to neighbors -- I want one in my yard. Or maybe we need one on every block in the 'hood?

This newly heightened love of bread took an a slightly literal turn a few weeks ago at the counter of La Cocagne, our "downstairs boulangerie." They sell their traditional style baguette under the name, Amourette. Danger right off the bat. After one of the three or so women who work the counter greeted me, I asked in my typical but never uniform way for two Amourette. I often mess up pronunciation of "deux" (do, du, duh...) and maybe prefaced it with a "Je voudrais" or a "s'il vous plaît..." not quite sure. But whatever I said turned bread girl red. Never abandoning the notion that I was trying to buy bread rather than asking for something more extracurricular and involved, she repeated the question the way I perhaps should have asked it and then quickly recounted a condensed version of the exchange to her coworker now standing next to her (perhaps the second of the two lovers I'd requested). Oh a good laugh they they both had. I'd like to say it wasn't at my expense but when it was over, I gave them money.

Pictures:
More pictures of many things rambled about above.

Foot, gym, zoo, & droppin' outta schoo'

Vilanjou. The biggest U-11 uniforms
are a little short(s).

It's official. Jack has a license to kick in France. The soccer league office had rejected his Bellingham doctor's athletics release form, telling us that he'd need to be examined by a French doctor before playing in any games. Site director Sue came to the rescue and and hooked us up with a local doc who was willing to issue the needed stamp based on U.S. doctors' paperwork. But wait, there's more! The league office then decided we'd need to submit proof of residency for Jack. So, digging into our now substantial pile of foundational documents, we compiled exhibits A through D -- another curious chain of "proof" and unspoken assumptions that somehow provides the youth soccer office with a defense against accusations of harboring wayward aliens.

We haven't actually seen the license. All the players' licenses are kept by the coach in an attractive leather pouch which is taken to games. Upon arrival, the ten or so 13-digit license numbers are transcribed onto a game form. The first order of business is to administer the standardized skills testing and record results on each player's row on the form: number of consecutive right-foot juggles, left-foot juggles, and head bounces. The two games so far have been at very nice fields -- one in a rural town, Vilanjou, about a 25-minute drive south, and one across the river in Beaucouzé. How is youth soccer in France different from youth soccer in the United States you ask. Well... let me count some ways. 1) For the most part, parents and families don't go to the games. Most players are dropped off at their home-club field (yes, very nice publicly-supported playing fields spread throughout the land) and crammed into a few cars with coaches and one or two parents who go along. 2) Snack: In France (where as Steve Martin says, "they have a different word for everything.") it's called goûter (goo-tay). The host field provides the goo-tay for all players while the coaches (and parents with nothing better to do when their kids are out of the house) go to the cash-bar and have a beer. 3) In the U.S. you might be surprised to see the coach smoking a cigarette while yelling to his players to stay in position. 4) Back to the facilities -- even at the youth level, each team is provided a locker room. Players just don't jump out of the mini van wearing their uniforms and cleats. After the game, players go clean up, change back into regular clothes, and then partake in the goo-tay. This also allows more time for beer.    Soccer & gymnastics pictures

Last Saturday was also Ella and Ivy's second gymnastics meet with Angers Gymnastique. A lot more teams this time gathered at yet another beautiful sporting facility down the road in Les Ponts-de-Cé. "Anjay Jeem" did great -- taking second place and securing an invitation to the May 28 meet in Laval.

Ella looked good coming off the bars but, because they
don't post scores here in France, we can only assume it was...
Is it true? ... Oh my god it is... A  PERFECT 10!!!

We keep appreciating the short, one hour French gym meets during which the same amount of gymnastics takes place as the seemingly endless affairs back home. The differences are 1) team size is limited to five. In the U.S. it is often over 10 and so the rotations through events creep and creep. 2) Scores are not posted. 3) Awards are given for team score only and only to the top three teams. No self-esteem nonsense here unlike U.S. meets where awards are given for every event, overall individual scores, and team scores -- all down to 11th place. Don't do the math, it will take even longer. It's nuts. 4) While the French gym-meet regimen saves time on gratuitous medal distribution, it takes some of that back with all the bisous ("bee-zoo" -- little kisses). Ella and Ivy were better prepared this time to go with the flow of countless kisses at the medal stand. It's a process. The second place team bisses (mmwah, mmwah) with each of the first place team and then takes its spot on the second level. The third place team then mmwah-mmwahs down the line of all 1st and 2nd place cheeks. Then the old dudes who deliver trophies and medals need to get in on the action and apparently their technique is a little more old-school. Ella and Ivy reported that their medal-hanger had gross wet lips. I'd chime in about the exquisite goo-tay stand at the gym meet but I don't want to sound like a broken record. And if I'm using the phrase broken record, I might be mistaken for an old man with wet lips. Number 9. Number 9. Number 9.

Château de Brissac as seen from Anjou Bus. I'm sure they
built it there to be close to public transit.

Speaking of number 9,  Monday we jumped on line 9 of Anjou Bus (the Angers-centric regional bus system) and headed out to Doué-la-Fontaine, home of Bioparc -- the recently re-named Zoo de Doué-la-Fontaine. They changed the name as part of their 50th anniversary -- 50 years of animals trapped in the large rectangular open pits of a long-abandoned stone quarry. But, ironic juxtaposition of strip-mining and species preservation aside, it was a well-done and oddly picturesque location which seemed to provide some decent space -- at least compared to where a lot of other captive animals live (and even work).
But, Bioparc did offer some notable options that most zoos I've been to would shun. As soon as you walk in, you can buy a bag of popcorn. Pourquoi? French people don't eat popcorn. Well, silly: It's for the animals. Yes, a zoo where you're invited to feed any and all animals who will eat it, popcorn. I think of the National Park campfire talks I've listened to where the rangers would have you feel guilty for accidentally dropping an almond on the ground, thus throwing the whole natural world out of balance. But, I guess a zoo is already so far out of whack it might as well just run with it. Next, we had to take advantage of the very good restaurant that was built right to the edge of the "camp des girafes." If they had wanted to, those giraffes could have shared my fish with curry sauce. But, again, an underlying French tenet seems to bear out: if something is worth doing, it's worth doing with good, thoughtfully presented food.  Bioparc pictures.

In between animals at Bioparc.

Spring in Angers has not been any kind of subtle, incremental shift in temperature and daylight. It's been head-on beautiful. And since we've never been here before, we can be totally confident in assuming it's like this every year. Walking around it's easy to frequently wonder how so much can look so good?  Public parks, pedestrian plazas, lasting infusions of artistry in architecture, public art, and one of my favorite elements, hardscape. Well done stone and brick work is everywhere that people are expected to gather for shopping, eating, bench-sitting, smoking, and kissing. The landscaping itself can seem a little too formal and overdone at times -- like I've always found trees in boxes to be dumb. But lay down the cut stone and mortar (and maybe a bronze nude or two) and voila, you've got yourself an urban womb of rejuvenating calm.  Angers spring pictures

Stumbled upon these folks across the river carved on an evidently less-celebrated half-timber house. The primary figures are labeled with some virtues: friendship (I will keep your skull with me at all times when you die),  liberality (I have a bag of stuff which I'll probably share), magnificence (crowns and capes - wear 'em if ya got 'em) , and illegible snake slayer girl. It's also interesting to note that nipple rings and the extreme standing-eagle yoga pose are nothing new.

In my bloggish opinion, overt artistic and decorative elements need to make a major comeback in the urban environment. It's not a French or European thing as much as it is a post-industrial thing I figure. But as I spend more time here, the question is becoming more: why wouldn't you carve, sculpt, paint, inlay, (etc.) animals, people, flora into and onto your house, school, bank, so on and so on? So much wasted surface. Look out neighbors, we're gonna have a chisel party. Another option is guerilla art which I've also been enjoying a lot of here.  Found art in Angers

School report

Ivy, Jack, & Ella on their last day in the
halls of the old convent--trying to hold
back the tears.

In the run-up to Jack, Ivy, and Ella's two week spring break at Collège La Madeleine, it occurred to us, with seven weeks left in our stay, to reevaluate their options. And, we decided they could drop out. They've had a really great experience at their school, meeting local kids, learning some French, helping classmates who are learning English. But, while it was a good environment for listening to a lot of French,  there were frequent chunks of time when teachers would tell them they'd be better off reading a book or just going to the library for the next hour. Not totally unreasonable given the way we parachuted in in the middle of the school year but not a model worth sticking with till the very end or our visit. They'll still be having French tutoring with Pauline twice a week (maybe more now). Their school friends are already making arrangements to hang out outside of school (which is probably better for language learning). And I'm making a list of incredibly boring field trips that I'm sure will prove to be the best days that ever were.

Bonus conclusion

Poulet roulé

So I'm cooking a chicken for dinner tonight. I remembered seeing some kind of poultry rack under the oven, so I opened the little door and went through the inventory. There was a little wire frame and a skewer down there but where would that go? It looked the same dimension as an oven rack but I didn't see the point if there's no way to spin it. So I put it in anyway and then I saw it. A magic hole where the skewer goes. Our oven has a built in rotisserie. Wooooooooo. That's so awesome! I'm sittin' here bloggin' while the bird is spinnin' to golden perfection. Life's little surprises are so good sometimes.

L'âge de la découverte

Why do we Americans call it French toast if French people don't even eat eggs for breakfast? These types of idiosyncrasies are fun to consider. But thanks to the internet, there's really no reason to involve you (other people) in such musings. I should just google it and go back under my rock. So, in deference to your prerogative, in consideration of your time, I'll abandon the French-toast mystery and dump it on the pile of evidence for the age-old assertion that contemporary media is killing social interaction (if by that you're willing to include conversations about toast).

I really can't ignore this self-made opportunity to tell my favorite toast story--a bit of a diversion from the Angers, France theme. It was a Saturday morning in 1991. I was still living in San Francisco so there's really no need to talk about seasons. I woke up on Nelligan's couch--an obvious indicator that it'd been another quality Friday night celebrating 36.5-hours of "work" at McCutchen. In need of breakfast, Patrick flexed his culinary muscle and set to fixin' a baking sheet of toast. Having badly burned all the prospective toast, it was suggested we see who could throw a piece of it the farthest. In case you're unfamiliar with Patrick's early 90's SF apartment (which doesn't exist anymore), it was one of a few units carved out of a natural wood hippy shack on 17th Street. Built on the back half of a very steep, rocky, lightly-forested lot on a very steep street, Patrick's door and front porch were at the top of very steep stairs. Just outside the door, we were about 200 feet from the street at a 45-degree angle. I can't remember who led off but my shot was a beauty. A backhanded wrist flip sent the toast off with impressive rotation and a visually pleasing slalom arc through the tree branches. As it became clear that this charcoal encrusted wonder was going all the way, a car came into view from the right, driver window down and... IN went the toast.

Superimposed on the Google Street

View of what's there today, the

approximate trajectory of the

epic toast flight.

In the same, unbelievable fraction of a second, the car exited our lot-wide view. We weren't looking for it but somehow this moment provided a sense of triumph--as if giving an unsuspecting driver an unfathomable yet mundane experience was a mission we'd been on for months. Who knows where this story might have gone next. But regardless of whether there's a chapter two, flying toast victim, here's to you (and that would be a toast).

My newly appointed panel of experts on all things Angers.

Back in Angers we've continued to encounter some ungoogleable puzzles. And just yesterday, I realized that I have the perfect, off-line resource for solving these curiosities--a panel of experts. Most Thursdays, in the hour leading up to lunch, I've been volunteering at the Angers Anglophone Library with the English conversation group--folks that meet to keep their previously acquired English in tune. Right off the bat, my experts are two-for-two.

1. What are those two-color, stripe symbols painted on poles, stones, and trees along the river and in other parts of town?
Well, this turned out to be easy. I was hoping that these markings would be the secret code of nocturnal masons. As it turns out, if I were any kind of euro-hiker, I would be all too familiar with the way-finding symbology of La Fédération Francaise de la Randonnée Pédestre. Founded by Jean Loiseau in the mid 1940s to create and maintain a wide network of hiking trails, the website history section explains that "He inquired about what already existed in some foreign countries: Germany, Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland and even the United States in the Appalachian Mountains where they had the good idea to put paint stripes on different media in nature (rocks, trees, etc.).." This method would likely still be used in Appalachia if they hadn't switched to using junked cars in 1951.

2. How is it that taxi drivers in Angers (or all of France?) have some of the nicest cars on the road?

Do I want to hail the Audi taxi
or the 'Benz?

I should start off by saying that I can see great reasons why taxis should be the nicest cars on the road. If you're going to drive a taxi for ten hours a day, you should have a nice office. And if we want to encourage alternatives to car ownership and parking lots, taxis should be alluring options, not holding cells on wheels designed to be hosed out at shift's end. But how is this the case? Subsidies? Tax breaks? Well my experts first let me know that taxis in Angers are expensive -- pricier than Paris -- especially at night when the rates go up. But also, the tax write-off turns out to be part of the the equation. And at the end of the shift, a driver can pull the blue light off the roof and, voila, sleep in their car.


On special this week: Since my most regular interaction with locals is paying for groceries and baked goods, store shelves continue, sadly, to be my most reliable proxy for conversations that might otherwise be a more defensible basis for commentary on life as it's lived here (which, from the sidelines, looks pretty flippin' good).

In France, is this like, buying shampoo
and conditioner? Or is it just another
five-euro dilema? Is the next step to
create a blended product, add
chocolate, or both?

Virtue and vice and processed rice,
that's what Barbie Dolls are made
of. *Serving suggestion. **Inflatable
Ghost of Barbie not included.

We stocked up on French groceries for Jack's 11th birthday Friday. After Evelyn's visit a few weeks ago, we needed to declare a moratorium on pain au chocolat. But we lifted it to kick off b-day festivities.

Jack's request for his day of hooky was a picnic at Parc de Balzac across the river. After pre-dinner/pre gymnastics brownies and ice cream, Jack's friends from the 'hood all joined up for a birthday Skype session on their way to school in Bellingham (very fun -- thank you!!!).

At the banque,  you need to
expose yourself for money.
(I never noticed FP mom's
360˚ bossom.)

In other news from the last week, we haven't really noticed much impact here in Angers from France's new prohibition on burqas that went into effect Monday. Waiting for the bus on the way home from Jack's soccer practice I noticed that to enter the ATM kiosk I was standing next to a customer is supposed to remove face and head coverings. So, if you keep your burqa in exchange for the 150€ fine, you can't use an ATM to get the cash? And what do people look like here when you convince them to remove their hats, sunglasses, chin-high collars, scarves, and face veils? Answer: Round-headed, smiley faced, ATM-worthy Fisher Price cylinder people. So take note, when everyone fits in the same size hole it's a lot easier for The Man to take your money at the parking garage.

Friends don't let friends wear farmed fashion.

The salmon are running: In fashion this week, one word, salmon. I don't know how the communiqués are issued but, as if a switch was thrown at the prefecture,  everyone's got their salmon-pink jackets, scarves, pants... you name it... on. Kristin doesn't share my sense that this recent shift in outerwear is especially pronounced or notable. Maybe this is less a French/Angers thing than it is a result of comparing any observation about clothing rituals to Bellingham, WA -- where the most intense fashion topic in three years was probably a new color of Danskos.
Au revoir for now.

Order, chaos, and mockery on parade

Spring continues to deliver new leaves, flowers, bird songs, lizards (lots actually) and visitors. Grandma Linda, Grandpa Hugh and sister Jeanne stepped off the TGV from Charles de Gaulle airport on Thursday with the calm self assurance of daily commuters (however it will be more than a week before they ply this skill again). I tell myself they must have benefited from previously posted accounts of our TGV foibles -- an "if nothing else, one can always serve as a bad example" sort of thing.

Apocalypse Tapestry (wild things 1373) vs.
'Wild Things... (1963).
Go to your doom vs. go to your room.

Getting right into it with new visitors is easy here in centre ville.  Even on my third visit to the Château d'Angers in two months, there's a lot of chât to look at. (Photos) And really, I think it took three visits to connect with the Apocalypse Tapestry which is housed there -- the world's longest tapestry and most famous true tapestry in France (since, tapestry buffs will have you know that the Bayeux "tapestry" is actually embroidery). Some revelations take longer than others. But creatively delivered reminders of how treacherous and scary life can be are always worth waiting for. And even walking around town, it's easy to wonder if old-world perspectives on uncertainty (such as the fairly decent chance that a seven-headed devil dragon could descend from a fire-cloud at any moment and bite your head off) still inform the region's notion of public safety. The château itself is actually a perfect example of this. The moat, a 40-foot drop, is separated from the sidewalk by a 2-foot wall.

Jardin des moat. Looks
steep but, it's all about
balance.

Is more left to chance in France? Or, are some places, like the United States, obsessed with certainty? Is adaptability a virtue or a symptom of low self esteem? To describe societies we often cite the relative amount of order imposed on various aspects of daily life. They put barriers between opposite directions of highway traffic. They eat raw meat. Their trains are never late. They never care what time it is. They'll let anyone see a doctor.

In France: Accidents don't happen

to toddlers, mindless parents do.

I'm guessing it's more the case that all societies try to impose about the same amount of cumulative order and standards on their worlds. How that instinct to master the universe is divided and applied to civic life is, I think, a basic component of culture. Consider the intersection at our address: 33 Rue de la Roë. Among the four signs there are different layouts, parsings, fonts, and spellings. In the U.S. this would be an inconsistency in need of correction--it could cause the Publishers' Clearinghouse Sweepstakes envelope to get misdirected. But, it works. It's enough that all the signs are blue with white letters. The conformity forgone with street-lettering is applied to other categories--like window treatments.

Out with the old, in with the eww. I mean, you think you
know a country and then they start with the volets roulets.

And that would be shutters. Pretty much all windows have shutters (volets). And, it seems like all shutters (sadly) are gradually being replaced with volets roulets (rolling"shutters") which look like miniature warehouse doors. Our apartment's windows are fully equipped with "voolay roolay." Fancy ones are motorized. Ours are hand-cranked with seven-foot poles. We rarely roll them down for some reason. Maybe it just seems too much like a signal that we've withdrawn to the bunker. I'm pretty sure through that they would stop flaming arrows.

Our apartment according to the

Angers Fire Department.

And what if a flaming arrow? On the public safety front, while smoke detectors are nowhere to be seen, outside every apartment door is a detailed floor plan with the gas-shutoff location marked. While this helps party crashers find your fridge, it's also a good snapshot of those charming asymmetries from the days of Donald Rumsfeld -- when you built a building along the angles of the streets you have, not the streets you wish you had. These schematics also help the roulet voulet sales reps have an estimate prepared before they even ring your bell.

I'm sure that everyone's shutters have been opened/rolled up this week in order to see all the festiveness outside. Friday (April 1) was Poisson d'avril (Fish of April). We've been trying to track down a verifiable explanation of this variation (or some sources would suggest origin) of April Fools' Day. The outcome is basically similar, though. People play jokes on one another, the most traditional of which is to attach a paper fish on someone's back. This apparently started when the celebration of the new year shifted to align with the calendar year and people who were out of the loop, and still expecting traditional "new year's" gifts of food on April 1 (most commonly fish since it was Lent) would be mocked by being given a fake fish.

Figure 1: Life Cycle of the Poisson d'avril au Chocolat.

So, not quite in the same way that I think it would be funnier to switch back to giving people a real fish at 8:30 in the morning, the choclatiers have intervened to solidify the metaphor with cocoa, sugar, and... wait for it... butter. As the diagram at left shows, the larger fake fish often swallow a joke whole and it can be extracted and enjoyed before eating the fake fish which, funnily enough, costs much more than real fish. So the punch-line is both the end and the beginning. I'm sure the choclatiers are laughing with me.

Poisson d'avril also means young school children dress up and are lead on little parades through the neighborhoods in the morning. Top five categories of chosen costumes are sword-wielding pirates, mermaids, princesses, superheros with hyperbolic muscle inserts, and tomahawk-wielding Apache. The teachers feign obliviousness to the 20 or so paper fish taped to their backs.

Moving on to real food, it's a bit more real here. The Saturday markets don't only remind us that other animals can be on the menu (rabbit, horse, eel, etc.) but also remind us that all of these creatures can be dead and still have heads, eyes, and feet. This apparently dates back to the days when you were supposed to be skeptical of what you were buying unless you could look it in the face and make a positive ID. It was hard to be a vegetarian because, let's face it, carrots don't smile. The fact that chickens are sold without heads and feet in the U.S. (save dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets) obviously shows how much more Americans trust each other. And, really, what do we care as long as there's dippin' sauce?

The parade theme carried into the weekend with Carnaval d'Angers. The extra fun thing was that the carnaval (parade) went right down Rue Saint Laud, underneath our balcony, continued for five or six more blocks, and rounded back up to Place du Ralliement, just up the street. A drum corps, Bloco Chango, self-described as Afro Brazilian (so... south of the equator) certainly gave a high-energy start to the carnaval (and never stopped for three hours now that I think about it). (video below)

I have some pictures of the parade which I will be sharing with organizers of the ski-to-sea parade back in Bellingham--a parade that year after year conjures up the same formations of public safety hardware, anachronistic fraternal orders, and SUVs towing overtly commercial "floats" that they dwarf.

Equally as fun, since it was a tremendously nice day, was the people-watching from our balcony as the time for the carnaval drew near.  If you're curious about current French fashion and styles, check out my paparazzi Spring Fashion Review via the Rue Saint Laud cat walk.

Carnaval goers get hungry and for that, there're Nutella crepes. We were happy to see able-baker Charlie back in the groove with his crepe-making setup out in front of Le Grain de Malice--the closest boulanger up the street from us. Jack and Kristin saw "Charlie" having a bad morning a couple of weeks ago. As they walked by on the way to school, an unhappy customer was yelling about his sandwich and simultaneously throwing it at the baker. The sandwich bounced off the glass case into pieces. Unhappier still, perhaps due to his poor aim, the customer charged behind the counter and punched Mr. Baker in the eye. Numerous other customers had already flagged down nearby police who, by the time J & K were rounding the corner, already helping Mr. Cranky think about his choices. After few days, Jack reported that the baker was back in action, behind the counter with his big black eye. But he looks pretty good in this video--the crepes of wrath.

Bon appétit Au revoir. Bonne soirée.