Ode to Olive Oil

"I spent hours this weekend picking olives in my garden," my friend Michelle remarked the other day. She and her husband have a beautiful house on a hill overlooking Grasse, complete with the ubiquitous olive trees that populate this region.

(Note the ladder propped against one of the trees.)

November marks the start of olive season, so why not harvest your olives to make your own olive oil? Michelle proudly displayed her buckets of black and green olives mixed together. All olives start out green and turn black as they ripen but apparently you don't have to separate them for the purpose of making olive oil.

We met at Moulin de la Brague, the third largest olive mill in France, where the same family has been extracting oil from olives for over 150 years.

One of the mill workers weighed Michelle's olives, and then, to our surprise, threw them into a communal bin with lots of other olives.

Posted signs warned that inferior or damaged olives will not be accepted, but we didn't need to worry.

Michelle's olives passed the test, even if her outlay was a bit small by local standards. The olive growers milling about the moulin waiting for their lots to be weighed, their olives to be squashed, or their payments to be processed, had typically brought a few crates of olives.

While the olives were being washed, crushed (along with their pits), mixed and pressed, we wandered around looking at the old and new machinery and learning about the process of making olive oil -- an ancient art dating back thousands of years.

Homer called it "liquid gold" and the early Egyptians credited their goddess, Isis, with teaching them how to cultivate olive oil. Greek mythology claims that Athena won the city of Athens after bestowing an olive tree on the city's residents -- a gift deemed more worthy than those offered by Poseidon.

I was grateful to receive a gift of my own that day. Michelle's first efforts at olive harvesting resulted in four slim bottles of freshly pressed oil. And being a wonderful friend, she rewarded me with one of the bottles.

On my way home from Opio, I stopped at our favorite boulangerie for a fresh baguette, and at the Oasis des Fruits for tomatoes and avacados. Et voila! Lunch is served.

"Freshest I've ever tasted," Jeff effused between bites.

There's something about the taste of good olive oil that inspires us all. But instead of penning my own ode to olive oil, I'll share part of that written by the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda (no relation to the Czech writer, although Pablo did choose his pen name, Neruda, to honor Jan).

Ode to Olive Oil

In
The dry
Olive Groves
Where
Alone
The blue sky with cicadas
And the hard earth
Exist
There
The prodigy
The perfect
Capsules
Of the olives
Filling
With their constellations, the foliage
Then later,
The bowls,
The miracle,
The olive oil.

The Matterhorn

We thought about canceling the trip to Zermatt -- seemed a bit far away for just one night. But Hannah & Ray, world travelers since the '60s, had never really been to Switzerland, and we'd been calling ourselves the Swissy Six, so we had to go.

Zermatt is a car-free town. Between our OFII appointment, Jeff's foot injury and my parent's arrival, I didn't contemplae that fact until I was winding up, down & around the mountains between Lake Como and Zermatt -- a harsh wintry landscape that challenged my newfound manual driving skills.

Suddenly I wondered how I'd transport my parents, two teenage boys, Jeff on crutches, a large dog and all our bags from Tasch -- the town 5 km away where we had to leave our car -- to Zermatt. We'd had a difficult enough time making it from our rooms at Tremezzo to the car...

When we got to Tasch, we targetted Taxi Christophe where Dad and I ventured into the office to see what we could arrange on the spot. "Don't worry,"said the smiling man behind the counter. "We take care of everything."

Perhaps I didn't look convinced. He added, "Would you like a welcome drink?" Ah, yes. Please. Mom, Dad and I enjoyed a quick shot of grappa, to fortify ourselves, then loaded our family, bags and dog into a van that took us down the small mountain road to the entrance of Zermatt where an electric taxi ferried us to the hotel. Only electric cars and horse-drawn carriages are allowed around Zermatt, and even they struggle with the steep dirt paths to the town's attractions and hotels.

After a bumpy ride to our hotel, I started to wonder whether Zermatt was worth the hassle. Until we saw our room at the Hotel Hemizeus with a glorious view of the Matterhorn, one of the most famous mountains in the world, the iconic symbol of Alpine Switzerland. Was it worthy of the fuss, or was the pomp designed to keep the taxis and electro-car companies in business?

"Not a particularly good-looking mountain," my father remarked. "Doesn't measure up to Everest or K-2 or Kangchenjunga." He's right. The Matterhorn is a mere 14,692 feet high when the other peaks stand at nearly twice that height. "It's kind of vulgar looking," Jeff chimed in. My mother looked at the mountain solemnly. "It's lonely," she pronounced. The Matterhorn stands alone, the unicorn of mountains, while most of its kind clump together in a panoramic range.

Still, there's something to the unique four-sided peak and solitary position straddling the Italian and Swiss border. "It's mysteriously majestic," Anthony decided.

At least the Matterhorn is unlikely to be mistaken for any other mountain... which is more than I can say for Mt. Everest. My family flew from Bangladesh to Nepal the winter of 1983 for a short holiday. At one point Hannah, never a shrinking violet, stood up to announce to her daughters, and everyone else on board, that she'd spotted Mt. Everest out the window on the right. We all -- daughters and miscellaneous strangers -- grabbed our cameras and clicked away. About ten minutes later the pilot announced that everyone should look to the left as we were about the fly over Mt. Everest. We daughters shrank into our seats. As we explained to Luke and Anthony, this was back in the day when film was expensive to buy and develop, and most people didn't take more than 24 or 36 photos on any given trip.

Quite a contrast to today when my mother took over 500 photos on this trip alone, including this one of the morning sun hitting the Matterhorn.

Despite its critics, the Matterhorn's in the running to be one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. There's a contest going on that let's you cast up to seven votes to decide the new Wonders. The Matterhorn faces steep competition from the likes of the Amazon, the Grand Canyon and the Bay of Fundy. (The same organization recently came up with a list of the New 7 Wonders of the World which includes the Pyramids of Giza as an "honorary" Wonder. Apparently the Egyptians were not pleased that the Pyramids, the only surviving Ancient Wonder, were originally thrown in as just another contestant alongside upstarts like the Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower and Sydney Opera House. I think they have a point.)

Cast your votes at the website below!

http://www.new7wonders.com/community/en/new7wonders/new7wonders_of_nature/voting

Finally, speaking of wonders, natural or otherwise, not only did my mother, Hannah, take over 500 photos, but she made lots of new friends between the flights, the Italian man at the AutoGrill, the three elderly English ladies in Bellagio, the Cuban tourists at the perfume factory and the owner of the hotel in Zermat, featured with her here. "It's hard not to talk to people," my mother explains. As my dad, a man of fewer words, might say, Accha.

Lago di Como

I had planned quite the road trip for my parents' visit with Cousin Anthony -- two nights at Lake Como, two nights in Zermatt, and a night in Italian wine country on the way home. But the French Office for Integration & Immigration had other plans for Jeff and me... like a mandatory medical examination at their offices in Nice to complete our residency permit requirements, right in the middle of the week.

Still we decided to forge ahead with an abbreviated version of the trip as our road warrior behind the wheel didn't mind the intensive schedule. But during the heat of a frenzied ping-pong match, Jeff tore a ligament in his foot which left yours truly as the remaining member of the group with recent stick-shift driving experience.

We left late after our (successful!) OFII appointment and drove long hours through tunnels and around twisty bends to arrive at Lake Como in the dark of night. Our reward came the next morning when we stepped onto our balconies to see where we'd arrived.

The Grand Hotel Tremezzo, just across from Bellagio, delighted us from the lavish breakfasts complete with five types of honey (Anthony and Jeff tried them all) to evening drinks enjoyed in the salon while Dad played pool with the boys. We especially appreciated the delicate bowl brought for Charlie who, of course, came along for the ride.

We took a ferry to Bellago and spent the day climbing the old steps that connect the terraced layers of the town; shopping for silk purses and trinkets made from olive wood; and walking out to La Punta, the point that divides the lower parts of the lake. Sadly, Jeff's reliance on crutches meant that he couldn't make it any further than the row of cafes along the waterfront.

And so he enjoyed what one of the lake's most famous residents calls "that indolent but agreeable condition of doing nothing." And who would that famous resident be?

None other than Pliny the Younger, the lawyer & philosopher from Ancient Roman times who was born in Como. (You were expecting George Clooney?)

The Sweet (Soft?) Smoky Life

More than a dozen fires burn in the hills and valleys behind our house. No, it's not the striking students, truckers and union organizers. As Luke put it, "In Paris they're burning cars, here they're burning leaves." For the past three weeks, the acrid smell of burning leaves, weeds, and other garden refuse has overwhelmed the jasmine, mimosa and thyme.

It's not so bad up on our hill, but in the valleys, the smoke is smothering. October 1st marked the start of the season when people are allowed to set bonfires to burn what they want to dispose of but don't want to pay the steep costs to have hauled away. So we've had smoke, but not the fires aroused elsewhere in France by the proposed law to change the national retirement age from 60 to 62.

We've felt small ripple effects -- a few petrol stations out of gasoline and packs of gendarmes outside of Luke's school -- but for the most part things are calm compared to the riots in Paris, Marseilles (where they're blocking access to the port's oil terminals) and Lyon. The French people I've asked about the strikes express an initial sense of shame for the chaos caused by the strike participants. But then they mention the tax breaks for the super-rich and the corporations who do business here but pay little tax. And they talk about traditions and how most people they know value leisure time over money. They'd choose an extra week's holiday over an extra week's pay.

One columnist said the strikers fight for a "birthright of privileges." From where I sit, those privileges include long walks along the coast or in the forest, Sunday lunches that start at 11 and run into the evening, and leisurely games of boules. La douce vie, indeed. But the word douce means both sweet and soft in English. I've talked to Americans, Brits, Italians and Germans, all ex-pats, and most scorn the "soft" French who don't want to work an extra 2 years for the good of their country.

I don't have much sympathy for the high school students joining the protests (let's see -- go to school or run wild in the streets?), but I have a soft spot for the French yearning to keep their beautiful lifestyle intact. After all, their douce vie is what lures us all here. Although I'll be glad when they stop burning cars -- and leaves.

Plus je connais les hommes, plus j'aime mon chien

That was the response of the tough looking, brook no-nonsense waitress when I asked whether it was all right for Charlie to come inside: the more I know humankind, the more I love my dog. She then promptly returned with a bowl of water for him before asking the rest of our group what we wanted to drink.

It's no secret -- the French love their dogs, as well as any other visiting canine, it seems.

Charlie has now been to many restaurants, indoor and out, and, as you can see from the photo to the right, the best part about restaurants is the taste of the delicious morsels of food that drop, intentionally or not, onto the floor.

I knew that Charlie would be welcomed in France, but I didn't anticipate the extent to which he'd be adored. As Jeff used to say about the days when we pushed Luke around in a baby stroller, walking with Charlie is like walking with a mini-celebrity. It helps that the French tend to have smaller dogs so that Les Goldens are a bit of a rarity. Luke is reading Steinbeck's Travels with Charley at the moment. It happens that Steinbeck's dog's formal name is Charles le Chien (a French poodle) who also shares in common with our Charlie, "a roar like a lion designed to conceal the fact that he couldn't bite his way out of a cornet de papier." But what we can really relate to is how much Steinbeck's Charley helped forge a bond between the author and the people he met on his cross-country trip through America. Similarly, our Charlie has been a wonderful conversation starter. The first words from a hesitant mother whose eager child is reaching for Charlie tend to be, "Est-il gentil?" Is he gentle (literally, kind)? Before I can reassure, Charlie is pressing up against the asker and wagging his tail enthusiastically.

Perhaps his finest hour came on the TGV from Cannes to Paris. Dogs are allowed on the train as long as they tuck under your chair. Well, Charlie didn't really fit under the chair but he was happy to lounge in the middle of our group. (It would have been trickier if we hadn't had the entire foursome to ourselves - we'll have to buy him a seat when just the three of us are traveling.) There were a number of French children who were both fascinated and frightened of him. Finally, one of the small boys darted a hand out to touch Charlie's nose. Charlie immediately stood up and started wagging which scared the boy away. But he came back, with his friends, and soon Charlie was in the middle of aisle surrounding by happy French children chattering away about le gros chien.

From the gardien with his petite, petite Fifi to the woman down the street with her miniature poodle, and the masses of students at Luke's school, everyone loves Charlie.

Plus ils aiment mon chien, plus j'aime les Francais!

Tenez!

The French adore tennis! In fact, the word tennis derives from the word Tenez! which, in the early days of the game, is what the server would call out before starting up the point. In French, it means, loosely, "Take heed!" or "Take that!" This passion for tennis goes back a thousand years when monks in France invented the game of jeu de paume. The aristocratic children sent to monasteries for schooling quickly discovered the fun of the game.

By the 1300s, the ordinary man, and woman, had taken to jeu de paume.

The game proved to be so popular, and disruptive, that in June of 1397, the Provost of Paris banned the playing of jeu de paume every day except Sunday to stop the tradespeople and other commoners from abandoning their obligations on weekdays which was very "prejudicial to good order. "

The other day, during a tournament in Cannes, we got a taste of the unruly behavior, the abandonment of manners, inspired by passion for the game.

The match was scheduled for 3:00 on a Wednesday. I navigated through Le Cannet and the windy streets of Cannes to find the Montfluery Tennis Club, flanked by flowering bushes, hills and palm trees, just in time to see Luke (in red) warming up for his match.

There were two benches, separated by thick brush, next to the court for spectators. A crowd had assembled to cheer on Luke's opponent -- the mother and father (who spent a lot of time smoking and French kissing); an older woman, perhaps an aunt; and a collection of brothers, friends, or cousins. I took a seat on the other side of the bushes after a polite nod. A couple of Luke's buddies from ISP soon joined me, including Igor, a young tennis player from Ukraine. In the U.S., you're not allowed to coach, jeer, taunt, or otherwise interfere with the play of game. [Robyn and I have taken a German father to task for even gesturing to his son during a match.] Apparently, the same rules apply in France, but, according to Igor, no one seems to mind them.

During crossovers between games, the father on the other side of bush had no qualms about crouching down next to his son to give him pointers on this game. And often when a ball was called out, the entire crowd of spectators joined in the following discussion as to the rightness of the call. [The unruly mob pictured below.]

Igor twice shamed Luke's opponent into revoking a bad ball call, and, to compete with the crowd screaming for their player, he continually shouted encouragement at Luke, even if a bit inappropriately on occasion. ("Come on, Luke! This guy's gonna have a mental breakdown soon." This provoked the boy's father to shout back over the bush, in English, "You shut up!")

Luke mostly kept score in French, threw out an Allez! here and there, but the novelty of his being a native English speaker roiled the gathered crowd. After winning a long, challenging rally, Luke shouted, "Come on!"bringing on mocking shouts of "Cahm awn! Cahn awn!" from the boys. They even jeered when Luke missed a ball, although at one point, they became strangely silent.

Luke lost the match (6-7; 6-1; 4-6), but he managed -- for the most part-- to stay cool and focused, despite the circus atmosphere around him.

During the car ride home he said, sheepishly, 'I did something I shouldn't have done on the court today." "Did you call a ball out that should've been called in?" I asked. "No, but when those boys were laughing at me, I flipped them the bird." All right then... that might account for their sudden silence. I didn't have the heart to lecture Luke on court side protocol -- at least not then and there. And his action does give new meaning to the word -- Tenez, indeed!

Valbonne: Our new Bethesda

We've dubbed the village of Valbonne our new Bethesda: less than ten minutes from our house; good shops for clothes, ice cream, books; plenty of street vendors, artists and performers; and places to dine en plein air.
There's a scene in the movie French Kiss, filmed in Valbonne, where Kevin Kline and Meg Ryan make their way down a narrow cobblestone street and she exclaims "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!" That pretty much sums up the town.

Valbonne owes its unique charm to two different orders of monks -- the Chalaisians and the Lerins. The monks from Chalais built an Abby in the Valis Bona in 1199 to have a southern base for their flocks of sheep during the winter months. They expanded rigorously throughout the Dauphine region and Provence, choosing communities where they were "assured supplies of cereal, olive oil and wine" while they tended to the sheep.

But their "religious fervor, saintliness and courage" weren't enough to maintain their far flung empire, and the order disbanded by the beginning of the 14th century. (Perhaps they assured themselves of too much wine?)

By the end of the Middle Ages, war, drought and plague devastated the area. In 1519, the head of the Lerins Abby (on an island just off the coast near Cannes) ordered the monks there to build a village next to the old Abby to repopulate the area. They designed the town in a grid pattern around a square that's now the Place des Arcades, the vibrant heart of the town.

Valbonne is famous for its Friday Market where the streets fill up with carts overflowing with fruits, vegetables, flowers, shoes, carpets, and a variety of saucisson flavors that can make a grown man cry.

Valbonne celebrates the Fete de la St. Blaise, de rasin et des produits du terrior with music, parades, markets and wine from the rare Servan grape in late January of each year. We'll be sure to lift a glass to the Chalaisian monks. And to all of our friends in and around the real Bethesda.