Month: July 2017

Name an August 2003 weather disaster that killed thousands.  Most Americans would fish for an answer; ask a Frenchman (or woman) and they will think heat.

Summers in France, at least until then, were normally mild, with hot days sandwiched between cool nights that allowed some relief.  Building construction reflects this historic norm; homes tend to be made of stone, which reflects heat rather than absorbs it, and surrounded with trees whose shade adds an extra buffer. This keeps homes cool, and as a result most do not have air conditioning.

Weather over most of Europe is the result of interaction between the clockwise rotation of the Azores High and the counterclockwise rotation of the Icelandic Low*.  During the summer the Low weakens and splits in two, with one area centered between Greenland and Canada and the other along the west shores of Iceland, while the High shifts west from the Azores to Bermuda.  This creates an oscillating wave of air (known as the The North Atlantic Oscillation) that brings alternating masses of warm, dry and cooler, wetter air to Western Europe between May and September.  But in 2003, the Azores High got frisky and moved north towards Scandinavia.  This blocked cool air from moving south and led to higher surface temperatures in the Mediterranean.  In early August a high pressure system moved north from Africa and stalled over France; the clockwise rotation pumped this excess surface heat northward.  Roadway surfaces melted and rail lines bucked; river levels fell, exposing Army tanks and munitions that had been submerged since World War 2; the heat even forced two nuclear plants in Germany to close when access to river water needed for cooling became unreliable.  The human toll was no less dramatic: a combination of the heat, building construction, and social factors resulted in the deaths of over 20,000 persons across the EU, 14,000 of them in France.

And now, twelve years later, a similar slow-moving high was inching north from the Sahara.

Following the 2003 heat wave, the World Meteorological Organization (The UN World Health Organization’s weather office) urged countries to develop heatwave emergency plans.  Once home, we switched on the radio (okay, France 24 through an IPad) and learned this infrastructure had been activated.  Warnings were pronounced at regular intervals, it was announced cooling stations were opened (and their locations provided), families and friends were encouraged to look in on the less mobile, and train and bus schedules were curtailed (to avoid disruptions due to encounters with damaged surfaces).  The night before, it was reported, over a million customers had lost power as a result of fires (blamed on malfunctions due to load) at the stations serving them, and today was expected to reach record highs. Out here in the countryside, farmers (ever attuned to the weather around them) had already shifted their work from mid-day to early morning and evening hours.  Animals hunkered in the shade, and humans made sure windows were shuttered to prevent direct sunlight from reaching interior rooms.

We took our noon meal (smoked trout and fromage with greens, we had given up on the stove days ago) on the veranda.  The trees around us were heavy with heat, branches and leaves drooping.  The plants that bordered the lawn seemed in retreat, huddled; flowers closed, stems loose, doing their best to escape the stress of the sun.  Or at least that’s what I imagined; it was exhaustingly hot to me, but I’d been living in an oceanic climate for the last 10 years, with one summer that barely touched the eighties, what did I know about hot at this point?

Just then, just when I was wondering whether it was all in my head, a magpie alighted upon a walnut tree by the road, opened its beak wide, and started to pant.  Yup, it was a scorcher.

You know what happens next: it was time for my nap.

More soon!

* Graphic of the Azores High and Icelandic Low (in the ‘Storm tracks and the NAO section) http://www.air-worldwide.com/Publications/AIR-Currents/2012/A-Windy-Winter-Season/

Hippy Dippy Weatherman on a similar phenomena: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2HpB5CGfLQ 

Even with the early hour, it was sunny and bright. Despite this, my mood was flat.  I had embarked on this journey, road trip, meditation retreats, resilience seminar, hoping to get my energy back and find a new path, a new (think Elwood Blues) ‘Mission From God’.  But so far… nothing.  To make things worse, my body was feeling really tired and I was worried my ick might be circling back. I was exhausted and felt empty.

But all was not lost – we were at marché, another opportunity to explore the local culture through food.  It was another small one, about a dozen vendors, held in the church parking lot of another nearby town.  Zia has summered in the area for over twenty years, and she has developed deep relationships with the farmers and vendors who supply her kitchen.  We stopped at the duck man, for paté but also to ask after his son who had recently started université in Paris.  We stopped at the honey man, just to check in but also for some propolis.  I paused at one table to consider some walnut oil to take home (the locals swear small doses improve longevity) while Zia charmed more of the divine breakfast peaches from the farmer whose tables were set under some trees.  I was glad it was an easy day and was eager to get back to the house for an early nap.

But I was to get a special treat.  On the way to our car, Z either realized I needed a pick-me-up or glimpsed movement on a side street.  “Oooh!”  She has a gift in these moments, standing in a way so you can almost see the lightbulb above her head.  “I need to check in on someone.”  We stashed our baskets in the boot of our car and started hoofing it down the rue.  Soon a tall stone wall topped with a thick umbrella of wisteria was at our side; we continued until we reached a pair of what looked suspiciously like repurposed barn doors.  The buzz of the call box was met with a positive response, so we lifted the latch and teased (heaved) the door free from branches of the trellis that wanted to hold its household close.  Inside was a cheery courtyard: a wide lawn framed with local flowers and trees.  Along one wall a young Polish man was busy tie-ing limbs of a pear tree to a trainer trellis along the wall while a second man wielded a skill saw at a makeshift workbench closer to the house.  And there was her friend Carmen, glass in hand, greeting us with enthusiasm and inviting us inside.

The house was cheery as well, a long space with kitchen and dining table to one side, lounging area and sleeping space to the other.  As Z and her friend caught up on events since they had last met, my attention was drawn to the mantel where two lifelike robins, both poised on the tips of their talons, dined, one noshing a dragon fly while the other scratched for snacks.  My noticing was noticed.  “Carmen is an artist,” Zia enthused, “She made these!”

As my gaze broadened, her work came into focus.  What I had thought were yard cuttings waiting for water were art; each leaf, blossom, and nascent pear of the branches on the table had been lovingly crafted by hand.  Once I looked closer I realized the anemones that framed the mantel were on stands, not vases, and the large blue butterflies exploring their leaves had not flown in from the yard. “These are amazing,” I fumbled as Z’s friend offered a tour of her atelier*.  We were ushered down a flight of stone steps to a cave that had likely been a root cellar in a previous life.

It was a clean space with white walls and work surfaces and an eggshell tile floor.  The air was still cool; gauze shrouded the windows, diffused the rising summer sun, and cast an even glow across the the space.  One wall was lined with supplies: lengths of copper and brass tubing in a barrel by the door waiting patiently for the tools thoughtfully stored alongside cylinders of gas.  The welder’s mask hung on a hook added a  somewhat ominous note, a reminder that nature herself can be fierce.  Along the back wall was a workbench, the loose arrangement of enamels, paints, and a half-formed melon suggested work interrupted.  In the center of the room was a work in progress: a tomato vine, complete with roots, its branches heavy with fruits in varying stages of ripeness next to a chair and a hand-size blowtorch.  And at the window was a cat, its attention focussed on a moth that had dared stray into the space.

I felt honored to be there, to sit at the feet of a master, as Carmen walked us through her process: deep research of potential subjects, welding the substructure, forming the shapes, applying the intricate external details.  She was generous with her time, answering all our questions, and with her space, allowing me to snap a few pics.

But like all good things, the visit was soon over.  We made our way back to the car, tucked under the grape vines that lined the school playground and headed home.  Somehow nourished by the events of the morning, I began to drift off as we weaved along the country roads.

*Workshop

**Photos of the completed work are here: http://www.carmenalmon.com/fruits-and-vegetables .  I highly encourage browsing the site.

I quickly slipped into the rhythm of an American ex-pat living in France.  Mornings began with that bright orb in the sky, quickly chased with coffee, fruit, morning chores, and the local marché-du-jour.  After quiet time (for me) and a spell in the ‘art room’ (Zia) we would dine, then repose, read, crossword, or nap until it was cool enough to go outside.  Evening was light yard work (and a light snack) followed by a walk and some tele before turning in.

Tuesday marché is in Sarlat.  Located on a hill above the Dordogne River, the city sprung up in medieval times around a Benedictine stronghold, and records indicate that both Pepin the Short and his son Charlemagne went there on pilgrimage, the latter honoring the monks with a piece of the True Cross.  Following the Hundred-Years War noblemen settled the area, and many of the mansions (and much of the city-center architecture) date to that time.   Due to limited road infrastructure prior to the 1960s (until then the city had been serviced primarily by the river and on rail), its architecture remained relatively untouched and the city has been nominated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.  In addition to tourism, the area is known for its foie gras, tobacco, wild mushrooms and truffles.

We arrived early enough to stash our little white car under some trees in the lot across from the high school, and made our way to city center.  As we approached the former stronghold, the streets narrowed from modern-sized roads to narrow lanes in both directions to a single lane in one direction, all bordered with comfortable spaces for walking on each side. After a quick stop at a housewares shop to pick up an extra US-to-EU electrical adapter (okay, I lingered in the front of the store with its well-crafted, cleanly designed items in cheerful colors) we turned down a narrow allée towards the medieval part of town.  In the horse-cart wide space the grey and buff stone buildings towered above us.

Here the streets were cobblestone.  As we walked, the thin space weaved down a hill, past a shop featuring local wines, another with hand-crafted toys, and filled with African textiles, and I wondered what businesses had filled these spaces over the centuries.  We turned right, the walkway leveled, and the space opened into a plaza. To our right was an old church, the Elise Sainte-Marie, whose space had been used to produce ammunition during the Revolution and now housed a local craft cooperative.  Ahead of us were lanes of vendors selling produce and farm products, and on the far side the Cathedral with its ninth-century spire reigned over us.  We picked up some Spanish Ham and cheeses from the cheerful lady in the cheese truck (picture a food truck but fronted with a refrigerated cheese section, all local and exquisitely crafted) before making our way back to our car.  My shirt was damp with heat already, and I was looking forward to the cool enclave of the house.  But our travels were not over yet.

The night before I had been lightly chastised for filling my drinking glass with water from the faucet.  “We have spring water from the source,” Zia shared, and I was directed to the three large jugs under the bread table.  But when observed, these vessels were almost empty.  So once home from Sarlat, we stashed our treasures in the frigo, loaded the empty jugs into the boot of the car, and were on our way.  Our route led us through the next hamlet, turn onto a long dirt driveway, pass through the courtyard of a family farm, and continue to where the track ended in a small clearing at the base of a granite cliff.  “Huh?” I thought as Zia encouraged me to carry one of the bottles to a handmade bench near a wall of shrubbery.  There I found a yellow hose with a constant trickle of water. This was it, she explained as the bottles slowly filled, a spring cherished by locals that their families had drunk from for centuries.  And as the aquifer was healthy and Neanderthal paintings had been discovered in the caves above us, she continued, we may be drinking the same water as early man, the same minerals that had made their bones so strong.  We hefted the full bottles back to the car and, once back home, back to the kitchen.

Lunch was slices of Spanish ham, cheese (a delightful sheeps-milk camembert from a local farm), bread, and greens out on the porch.  Warm from the summer sun and worn from the day’s adventures, once the table and kitchen were clean I retreated to my room for yet another warm summer nap.