Gone to Carolina

It’s been a while, almost a year since I updated this website.

Much has happened, and most of my half-dozen or so readers have seen me within the past two months and will not need this update. But in case someone is strolling by and we haven’t been in touch recently, I’ll give the quick holiday card version.

After returning from Europe, we lost a beloved parent (John’s dad, who passed away at age 96), and for various family reasons, we decided to return to North Carolina after 35 years away. We’ve kept our house in Michigan and rented an apartment in Raleigh for a year.

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The view from our apartment building’s rooftop terrace.

My home state’s most famous author, Thomas Wolfe, is best known for his semi-autobiographical novel, Look Homeward, Angel, set in his hometown of Asheville (recently devastated by Hurricane Helene). Later, he wrote You Can’t Go Home Again. I understand what he meant by that, and I don’t disagree.

Home changes. People change.

When we left Raleigh as newlyweds 35 years ago for John’s dream job as a political reporter in Washington, D.C., he promised me that if I didn’t like it there, we would come home. I didn’t dislike our nation’s capital. I instantly found a job I enjoyed and was doing very well at it, and I made lifelong friends. But it was a grind, a workaholic life that I couldn’t reconcile with our wish to start a family. I wanted to go home. John inquired about newspaper jobs in North Carolina, and one editor suggested that before he came home again, he should try getting some broader experience. See the world, or at least the country.

So we moved to northern Michigan, a place we’d never visited. It was meant to be temporary, but we stayed for 32 years. Our perspectives changed, much as that editor recommended. We learned to cross country ski and to shovel snow. We made friends who didn’t give directions as “over yonder.” We made friends who hugged as a greeting if they hadn’t seen you in a week, or sometimes if they hadn’t seen you in a day. Many of these became very good friends. Slowly, we became midwesterners.

Yet, in my mind I was often gone to Carolina. John, not quite as much.

When John and I were planning our wedding, my daddy told me some advice he got from his own daddy, who died just before my parents’ wedding. The granddaddy I never met told him, “Son, get out a map and stick a pin in your bride’s family home and a pin in your family home, then draw a circle with a radius of 500 miles from either of those pins. Move outside that circle.” My daddy didn’t take that advice, and as it turned out, he regretted that we did. Whenever I would phone my parents, the first thing Daddy would ask was, “when are you moving home?” The saddest part of our return is that he’s not here to celebrate it, nor are John’s parents.

Daddy never strayed far from his Warren County birthplace. He rests in peace there.

John’s parents, who would have been equally delighted to have us close again.

When I met John in 1986, I was fresh out of college and dreamt of being a foreign correspondent like my mentor, Robin Wright (the journalist, not the actress). I was on the fast track, having secured a job with United Press International, which still had bureaus circling the globe. As John Lennon sang, “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

My wanderlust never abated. I still want to live in France! But home base has always been, and will always be, right here in North Carolina.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

T.S. Eliot

Some things have not changed, and others have changed significantly. Most of the changes I love.

Many times over the past three decades I thought I could never again live in the Triangle (that’s the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill metro area). Maybe I could live in Durham, if I had to pick a place in North Carolina. I always liked Durham, during my four years at Duke and then for another two as a reporter for the News & Observer before John and I left for D.C. But mostly, the massive suburban sprawl that characterizes the Triangle metro area was no longer for me.

Sometime during the past few years, that feeling started to change. Most surprisingly, I started to feel like perhaps, just maybe, I could even imagine living in Cary again, the epitome of Sunbelt suburban sprawl manicured boulevard mini-mansion hellscapes. This feeling came while escaping Michigan’s brutal winters, living in my childhood bedroom and taking care of my elderly mother, being completely car dependent, and yet not totally hating it. I noticed that Cary was attempting to get a bit of a pedestrian feel going in its “downtown,” such that it was, and the rebuilt library had a nice apartment building right next to it, and there were restaurants and a wine shop and a cultural center within the pleasant pedestrian area.

I went to a Turkish poetry reading that packed a large room at the downtown Cary arts center. I couldn’t imagine going to any poetry reading that packed a room, and this one was all in Turkish (with translations). My brother-in-law, who is Turkish, invited me.

It wasn’t just Turkish poetry. When I was out and about in Cary, I would see so much ethnic diversity and hear so many languages. The high-tech Research Triangle Park, often referred to as Silicon Valley East, along with the major universities in the region, is a draw to people from all over the world. And many of them bring their families, some of whom open restaurants. Cary is a hub for Indian and Asian cuisine. It even supports ethnic supermarkets, such as the Korean H-Mart and the Indian Patel Brothers.

When we moved from Raleigh 35 years ago, ethnic cuisine here was largely limited to Italian and Chinese. Tonight we’re celebrating our daughter’s birthday at a fancy Laotian restaurant, and it’s not even the only Laotian restaurant in town. We can now eat around the world here as easily as we did in Washington, D.C.

I love the multiculturalism that has infused the metro region with its vibrancy and made this one of the most desirable places in the country to live.

The downside, of course, is traffic and expense. We could reduce the latter by moving well outside of Raleigh, like to Warren County, where at least 300 years of my ancestors rest in cemeteries. It’s cheap, for sure, but there’s a reason for that. Warren County doesn’t even have a hospital, and as we’re both over 60 now, that’s a negative amenity.

Instead, we’ve forked over our cash to pay the high rent to live in one of Raleigh’s most walkable neighborhoods. Our address has a walk score of 88, almost as high as our son’s Chicago address. If we didn’t have relatives who all live in places with walk scores of less than 10, we’d probably not even need a car here. But we do, and we’re here to be part of their lives, so one of the first things we did was buy a new Toyota Corolla hybrid to replace our 2010 Versa. It’s primarily used to transport my mother to her many medical appointments.

We’re living in the same neighborhood in which my mother lived when she met my dad, and where she purchased her wedding dress, later my wedding dress. Back then it was called Cameron Village. Recently it was rebranded as The Village District when it was brought to the attention of the current owners of the large shopping plaza at the center of the neighborhood that the original antebellum owner of the land, the eponymous Cameron, held hundreds of enslaved people. Another good change.

John also lived near this neighborhood during his student days at N.C. State, which is about four blocks to the south of our building. We’re happily taking advantage of the offerings of a major university. We joined an extended education community for people over 50, which came with a university library card. I’m in library heaven, with a large branch of the Wake County Public library system just two blocks from my door and the flagship library of N.C. State an easy half mile walk away. Both libraries host interesting events. I’ve joined a knitting group at the county library, and last week we went to a packed auditorium at the N.C. State library to hear a talk from a professor who recently published a book on the beer-making culture of ancient Sumeria, followed by a tasting from N.C. State’s beer lab. At N.C. State, students can now get a minor in beer making. It’s science.

The N.C. State belltower, a heartwarming homecoming symbol for John.

We’re making new friends and reconnecting with old friends. Leah is taking classes at Wake Tech, finally ending her gap decade after high school. She’s also taking acting classes for fun and enrichment at the nearby Raleigh Little Theater.

My mother is struggling with the ailments of old age-it seems all of them, and all at once. I’m grateful that I can be part of her care and support team.

We’re also thrilled to be a regular part of our siblings’ lives again. We can go to family weddings and birthday celebrations. I can stop by my sister’s house just to chat.

The cost of this family togetherness is steep: we lose the ability to be a regular part of the lives of our dear friends in Michigan. We mourn that.

We may return to our house in Michigan for summers, although I must confess that I’m currently enamored of apartment life, where home maintenance is non-existent. Sometimes I miss my backyard herb garden, but it was only good for summers anyway, and my potted herbs here are thriving in their (usually) sunny window.

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Also, surprisingly for someone who doesn’t like heights, I’m enjoying living on the fifth floor. It’s a different perspective on the world from here. Hawks fly by the window, almost looking me in the eye. Hawkeye! The sky seems bigger.

Now more than a year since John officially “retired,” we are embarking on our next phase. In a few days, we go to a new member gathering for our N.C. State senior learning thing. We’re starting to talk about travel. I’m thinking of taking a pottery class at the nearby arts center if I can justify taking on another hobby. I’m planning to do a lot of holiday baking this year and may even string some lights around the apartment. With two libraries at my disposal, my to-read stack has exploded and I know I’ll never miss the hundreds of books I gave away before we moved. I don’t even need to use inter-library loan! If I want something so obscure that it’s not at Wake or State, I also have free access to the Duke University libraries with my alumni card.

We don’t know what the future holds, but it seems as if it has finally started.

Stay tuned.

Happy Turkey Day, Back in the USA

We’re back in North Carolina, but my body clock is still on European time. That means I’m struggling to stay awake past 8 p.m. and usually up by 4 a.m. John doesn’t have the same problem. He’s back to his night owl habits.

Speaking of John, the last week in Europe was not so good for him. He came down with a nasty bout of food poisoning just before we left Narbonne, and it wiped him out through Barcelona and the long journey back to the States.

So we didn’t see as much of Barcelona as planned. About the only thing John felt like eating was soup, so we had more pho and ramen in Barcelona than tapas. Maybe next time.

Ramen, Barcelona-style, to soothe John’s tummy.

We mostly explored Barcelona on foot. Not far from our hotel was a park with a Miro sculpture and a large community of noisy parakeets.

The Miro, upper left, is titled, “Woman with Bird.” I don’t see it, but I was a woman surrounded by birds at the park!

Out of habit, I kept trying to speak French in Barcelona. That thing where you know you have to communicate in a language not your own, so you default to your second-best. Eventually, I remembered I needed “por favor” instead of “s’il vous plaît.”

After nearly six weeks of espresso every morning in France, Barcelona’s coffee of choice — the café con leche – was a welcome change. Many counter-service shops in the city offered a combo of café with pastry for 2 euros. What a deal!

Yes, breakfast for two, a total of 4 euros.

Now I’m back in the U.S., where a single croissant starts at $4. I had a craving for something French yesterday, so I drove 2.5 miles to La Farm Bakery for a loaf of bread and a pain au chocolat, grand total $14. I miss France!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Au revoir Montpellier; Bonjour Narbonne

We’re now in Narbonne, a small city I’ve been dreaming about for five years, when we spent a delightful half-day in May here.

Leaving Montpellier was difficult, and only the prospect of going to Narbonne stopped me from sobbing all the way to the train station.

À bientôt, Louis XIV. The Sun King bids me farewell.

Narbonne is a mere hour’s train ride from Montpellier, and friends we made in the larger city advised us to live in the larger city and visit the smaller one. I see the wisdom of that.

Narbonne’s population is about 1/10 of Montpellier’s. It offers all the standard urban amenities, including a TGV (high-speed rail) station. It’s compact, walkable, and I get the sense that if we stayed here long enough, we would recognize our neighbors when we’re strolling along the banks of the canal. Housing is also cheaper here than in Montpellier.

But it lacks the vibrancy and energy of Montpellier’s youthful demographic.

Observationally (I’ve not looked up statistics), Narbonne is older and less diverse than Montpellier. It’s not a senior retirement community; we see plenty of children and people of all ages. But definitely, the elderly population here is more significant, and we also see fewer people who may have relocated from Arab or African countries.

Aside from the lower cost of housing, the primary logistical benefit of establishing a French home in Narbonne instead of Montpellier is that it’s closer to an international airport. Barcelona is just two hours by TGV, which we’ll be taking on Sunday to spend a few days in that Catalan jewel city before flying back to North Carolina.

Narbonne is lovely, relaxed and mostly basking in the Mediterranean sun. As I write, we have a chilly, dreary day, and we plan to take advantage of it by finally going for a cassoulet (a hearty baked bean and duck dish) for lunch.

This city is older than Montpellier in another sense. As we learned, Montpellier is rather young as French cities go, only being established about 1,000 years ago. Narbonne was Rome’s first capital in Gaul. Yesterday we toured the Horreum, which is an underground network of storage rooms built by the Romans some 2,000 years ago.

Where the Romans kept things, including their wine.

And, some other photos from Narbonne:

À bientôt !

Dogs of Montpellier (and a Cat!)

The French love their dogs. They don’t love cleaning up behind their dogs, which is why it’s advisable to keep at least one eye on the pavement when walking in France.

Leashes seem to be optional, and even in a busy city, most dogs are not leashed. However, they are very well-behaved and responsive to the voice commands of their human companions. Also, for some reason, they rarely bark.

All of Montpellier is basically a dog park. These two are greeting each other on the promenade near our apartment.

Dogs are allowed in restaurants and the waiters often provide them with water bowls. Once, in Paris, I saw a dog sitting on a chair at the table and eating from a plate on the table.

But here in the warm south of France, dogs usually dine outside (as do most humans!):

And finally, the cat.

Near our apartment, we pass a house with a window box in which a large gray cat is nearly always sleeping. We love saying, “Bonjour, le chat!” each time we go by.

One day last week, we were passing as a couple on bikes arrived at the door and unlocked it. We greeted them with a “bonjour” and then asked, “c’est votre chat?”

“Non, c’est un chat sauvage. Il est libre!” said monsieur. (No, he’s a wild cat. He is free). They then told us the chat sauvage hangs out there because they have a cat and he likes to be visit. They feed the cat. Perhaps others do as well.

We will miss le chat sauvage!

We leave Montpellier tomorrow for a week in Narbonne.

Eco France

We’ve been in France almost a month, and for the past three weeks we’ve been doing our best to really live here, to the extent that is possible in a temporary rental. I base the following judgement solely on our experience in one French city — Montpellier.

Being “green” in France is not hard.

Of course, France is not some green utopia. Like any country, it has room for improvement. But overall, the infrastructure supports eco-conscious habits and choices, big and small.

Let’s start with the big things.

Transportation.

First, there are trains. Traveling by train is a delight here. The TGV, or high-speed rail service, connects all major cities to Paris and some to each other. The regional trains are plentiful and timely (except maybe when a rail strike is happening). Not every village in France has a train station, but most will have buses to connect to one.

Montpellier has an excellent and affordable public transit system of trams and buses. A monthly pass for unlimited travel is 60 euros, unless you’re over 65 and a resident of the metropolitan area, in which case it’s free. At the end of the year, the transit system will become free for all residents of Montpellier.

One of the many colorful trams in Montpellier.

The city also has an extensive network of bike lanes, and many residents take advantage of them. In the central area where we’re living, we easily see more people on bikes than in cars.

This city also is a walking paradise. Many streets in the center are closed to car traffic; we can’t figure out if motorcycles are allowed or just ignore a ban.

Even on streets with cars, crossing is easy for pedestrians. Car traffic is light and motorists cede the right-of-way. Cyclists go pretty fast, so one must look both ways before stepping off the curb.

The vehicles here are generally much smaller than in the U.S. We see almost no pickup trucks. Small SUVs are about as big as a personal vehicle gets.

Modern meets ancient: an electric car charging up in a medieval square.
This one’s small even by French standards.
A postal truck. Delivery vans and trucks are smaller than in the U.S., as are the garbage trucks.

Food.

Our experience is not typical, living right next to the city’s biggest twice-weekly farmer’s market. But we’ve seen numerous fresh air produce stalls throughout the city, and even the small mainstream grocery nearest our apartment has an excellent selection of fresh foods.

A view of the Tuesday market from our window, as vendors are setting up.

At least half of the food I’ve seen for sale in Montpellier is labeled “bio,” which is the French designation for organic. Many restaurants also proclaim their use of bio ingredients.

Speaking of restaurants, one may consider portion size a problem for the waistline rather than the waste-line, but limiting it is a good thing for both. As anyone knows who has ever traveled outside the U.S., American restaurants serve obscenely large portions. You may think you’re getting more bang for your buck when your dinner plate has enough food for the average family of four, and you get a generous to-go box for your leftovers. Yay! Lunch for tomorrow, and maybe dinner, too!

But let’s be honest: those restaurant leftovers are rarely tasty after spending the night in your fridge and getting zapped in the microwave, and often they end up in the trash along with the box, which is often styrofoam. I have been in homes — not naming names — where cleaning out the fridge once a week results in a jumbo garbage bag full of take-out containers and their rotting contents.

I’m not quite sure how French restauranteurs manage the trick of serving just the right amount of food to satisfy me and my hungry-man husband. Ok, sometimes he finishes mine, so maybe I’d have leftovers if he weren’t with me. Still, the end result is that we’re eating what we’re served without needing a take-out box, which brings me to:

Waste (not).

Garbage here is also different. We live above a small organic grocery shop, and I can watch from our balcony their deliveries and pick-ups. Each day they put out crates of unsold produce, and someone collects it, whether for food pantries, animal feed, or compost, I don’t know. I’ve yet to see any of it go in the small dumpster on the corner.

The French also bring their own shopping bags, which are often carts on wheels. (I actually have one of these in Traverse City and take it with me to Oryana, but in my 30 years in northern Michigan, I’ve only seen three other people with a similar cart anywhere in Traverse City).

Leah with our shopping trolley.

At the farmer’s market, very light paper baggies are provided for those who want to gather their apples for weighing, but it’s perfectly acceptable to put them directly into your own bag or trolley. The only plastic I’ve seen used is for wet things like olives in brine.

Of course, France has a plastics problem just like most countries, but it is willing to ban things like drinking straws and styrofoam.

Recycling bins are located throughout the city.

I’ve seen signs about compost bins, but I haven’t needed one because of no leftovers. The food is so good we eat it all!

Appliances.

Are also smaller, and perfectly adequate.

Our apartment has a petite dishwasher, just one drawer under the sink. We’ve used it a couple of times, but mostly we wash up in the sink.

The French rarely use automatic clothes dryers. An American couple we met here are renting a furnished apartment that has a washer-dryer combo machine. However, mostly clothes are air-dried on racks, and the washing machines are small enough that one load does not overwhelm the fold-out rack.

Our cooktop is induction, which I’ve read is the most energy-efficient method. The oven is smaller than an American oven, but I could probably still fit a turkey in it if I tried. The refrigerator is larger than we’ve seen in other apartments, but still much smaller than anything other than a dorm fridge in the U.S. Yet it has a wine rack. Priorities! Also, a large fridge isn’t necessary here because you’re shopping more frequently and eating things fresh, plus not having all those take-out boxes, remember?

Finally, turn out the lights.

If there’s one thing that just seems a no-brainer, it’s installing motion-detector lighting. Every hall or stairway we’ve walked through in France has this. A light comes on when you open the door and turns itself off when you exit. I know other European countries also do this.

No place is perfect, and there may be areas in which the U.S. is ahead of France in reducing environmental impact. I just wish it were as easy to limit my carbon footprint at home as it is to do it here.

Sète by the Sea

Montpellier, where we’re residing for a month, is a lovely Mediterranean city, but it is not directly on the sea. While it’s easy enough to get to the beach by public transport, and we’ve done that, yesterday we decided to go a little farther afield and take the train to the port city of Sète.

Known as “the Venice of France” because of its network of canals, Sète is a fishing village with a tourism side hustle. The coastline is mostly rocky, so it wouldn’t be a first choice for long beach walks or swims. But if dramatic Mediterranean views and fresh seafood is what you’re after, Sète delivers.

The rocky shore of Sète.

From Montpellier, the train ride is about 18 minutes, passing through marshlands and a few vineyards. After arriving at le gare Sète, a short walk across a couple of bridges brings visitors to canal-side streets lined with restaurants offering tempting menus of the bounty of the sea.

This drawbridge pivots from side to side.

Probably the most popular option at a waterside eatery is moules frites–a big pot of steamed mussels with fries. The going rate is about 14 euros. Many restaurants also offered a “snack” of six oysters and a glass of wine for 10 euros. Ah, France.

The starter course of oysters, prawns and some sea creatures in shells.

After fortifying our bellies, we took a long walk by the shore. When I say long, my Fitbit tallied more than 12 miles for the day, although some of it was walking to and from the train station in Montpellier.

The views were breathtaking, and although the day was slightly cool and windy, the bike lanes and the pedestrian promenade were busy with people enjoying the fresh sea air and exercise, and of course, baguettes.

We felt very fortunate to be in such a lovely and peaceful place, and as we gazed east across the Mediterranean, we were well aware that on the far side of that shoreline, people are making war on each other.

Looking east and wishing all could have the peace we enjoy.

I also kept thinking of a book I read a few years ago, “The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean” by David Abulafia. He tells the story of thousands of years of people who have made their lives on these shores. I want to read it again.

Today is a bit rainy, for which I’m grateful, because I definitely need some rest.

Immersed in Wine (and Food)

Our wine week ended on Sunday by celebrating Leah‘s birthday with a day trip to a fabulous winery and a tour of the medieval village of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, which is officially one of the most beautiful villages in France. We had tried to visit it five years ago but couldn’t find a place to park. The commune of 250 residents hosts roughly 800,000 visitors a year. It makes Traverse City seem almost unvisited by comparison.

A path in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. Not easy to get a photo without humans!

But I shouldn’t skip too far ahead.

The last chapter in my travelogue was the visit on Wednesday to Chateau l’Engerran, and if the week had ended there, it would have been more than enough.

The best was yet to come. And I can’t even decide on the best. Was it Thursday? Was it Saturday night? All are winners here.

Thursday was the day of the hike for which I had been “training.” And first, there was wine, which was a visit to two wineries in the Pic St. Loup appellation, the most northern and eastern of the Languedoc region.

We started at Domaine de l’Hortus, and this was a winery I was eager to visit for personal reasons, the explanation of which would require a digression from my narrative so I have it on a separate page if anyone is interested.

We were greeted with the equivalent of a royal welcome at the domaine, probably because we were accompanied by the eminent wine writer, Andrew Jefford, a lovely person who gave us a master class on Languedoc wines on our bus ride to the domaine. Two of the three sons who run the winery took us on a tour of the gorgeous vineyard and modern production facility, and we were surprised and thrilled to be joined by their father, estate founder Jean Orliac, who was beyond charming and generous.

And the tasting presentation was simply the best I’ve ever experienced, and y’all know I’ve been to a few. Monsieur Orliac presented his wines by discussing his philosophy, the estate’s history, the growing of grapes and the making of wine. We sampled all of the current offerings as they should be, served at the proper temperature, decanted when appropriate and poured by the dashing Yves Orliac. Everyone in this group of serious wine connoisseurs and professionals was overwhelmed. And that L’Ombrée? It was undoubtedly the best wine John has ever enjoyed with his spaghetti.

Andrew Jefford (l) translating for Jean Orliac’s presentation of his wines.

Our next stop was radically different in style and presentation. I’ve never visited one of those cult-favorite California wineries that operates out of a garage or warehouse, but this was perhaps a similar experience.

We drove up to a nondescript building across a parking lot from a Purina pet food factory. No vines in sight. Maybe we were at the wrong place? No, this is it, Andrew assured us. We entered a small room that was perhaps a tasting room. Bottles of wine were visible. A young man was clearing some things up and would be right with us. Meanwhile, I observed through an open side door one of the largest cats I’d ever seen making its way across the street from Purina.

Then the young man, who was our host, Guilhem Viau of Bergerie du Capucin, started pouring his wines. They were incredible. This winemaker began his career selling grapes to a local cooperative and has been bottling his wine only since 2008. He says he’s still experimenting and learning to be a better winemaker. I think he already deserves his PhD.

Lunch followed at Le Pic St. Loup restaurant in the village of Les Matelles. More delicious wine and food.

Andrew, we hang on your every word.

Most of the group took a sensible approach to the hike that followed. They skipped it, taking the bus back to Montpellier. But I had been training! And I brought my hiking boots all the way to France! So on to the mountain I went.

I was probably on the trail for about half an hour when I was confronted with an incline of what looked to me like boulders in the shape of enormous horizontal razor blades. I was to climb that? Maybe, but how would I ever get back down? I decided to turn around and wait at the bottom. Three hours later, when the five who were braver than I returned from the “two-hour hike,” the first thing I heard was, “Sharon, you made the right call.”

So, if you ever want to climb the Pic St. Loup, John tells me the views are magnificent but it is the most challenging climb he’s ever done, and we lived in the Rockies for a year.

Friday we rested.

Saturday night was the grand party at the home of Princess & Bear founders Carol and Steve. At least three winemakers were in attendance, including John from Kentucky. This American married a French woman and agreed to move to her tiny village near the Pyrénées and buy some land and make a little wine. You mean, that’s hard? One of his reds I wanted to drink all night, but that bottle emptied fast. Seriously, people, if you can get the Princess & Bear to ship to you, order some Clos du Gravillas. You can thank me by inviting me over for a drink, although I might just drain the bottle.

That’s John from Kentucky on the right, arriving with his terrific wines. Those in front from Vignoble Puy were very good also.

We also met Colin Duncan Taylor, author of two books about the region, who the very generous Carol and Steve invited just to meet the two other writers on their guest list (that would be me and John). We immediately recognized a kindred spirit in Colin, and we bought both of his books even though I spent the summer trying to purge books and said I would buy no more. I’m already reading his Menu from the Midi and I love it. Last night I was reading a chapter on the Lucques olive, which is only grown in the Languedoc and is called the green diamond. This morning, I walked over to the outdoor market right outside our apartment and purchased some. I definitely need to finish his book before I leave France to avoid frustration.

I’m almost 60 years old. I’ve been to a lot of parties in my life. I’ve never been to one as magical as the party for the Princess & Bear’s Mediterranean Club.

As for the bus ride back to Montpellier, those of you who know John (from Michigan and North Carolina), ask him about the karaoke. He’s now a legend.

On to Sunday, which was Leah’s birthday, so she joined us for our last day of wine week.

We had only one winery to visit that day, but it was sufficient. We rode through the lovely country north of Montpellier to Terre des 2 Sources, which is in the AOP of Terrasses du Larzac, a relatively new appellation established in 2014. The owners greeted us. Kirsten, a New Zealander who was a “flying winemaker,” (she traveled a lot to make wine), and husband Glen, an American viticulturalist (he tends the vines), showed us around the place, treated us to a tasting, and then served lunch. Kirsten made the lunch. She’s an overachiever, not content just to make great wine, she has to be amazing in the kitchen also.

Lunch at Terre des 2 Sources, with winemaker Kirsten talking about the wines and her neighbor’s delicious food products that went into our meal.

Kirsten’s pavlova, one of two desserts she made for us. I told ya: overachiever.

The group. Winemaker Kirsten (holding Luna, her puppy) and master grape grower Glen (brown jacket) in front of their domain.

After that, we toured Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, which brings me back to the beginning of this post, and then we went back to Montpellier to collapse in exhaustion for the past two days.

So I’m caught up. The food and wine extravaganza is over. From now on, it will be just normal life in Montpellier. Reading, writing, flaneuring, and figuring out what it means to be “retired.” Or are we?

Stay tuned.

This One is All About Wine

(Come back tomorrow if you’re here for the food or the travel, or just to find out where we are).

Terre des 2 Sources wines. A typical line-up.

What a luxury to have so much time here in Montpellier that I can– without any guilt or fear of missing out– spend an entire day in my pajamas. I can’t think of when I’ve more needed a day of rest. We’ve had a week of almost non-stop activity and indulgence in fabulous wine, food and conversation.

The past week has been astonishing and exceeded my expectations, which were high. I hoped we would enjoy some good wine and food, learn more about the region, see lovely places, and bask in the Mediterranean sun.

All of that happened, but to an extent I never could have imagined a few months ago when I RSVP’d “oui” to a wine party in the south of France.

We’ve been in numerous wine clubs over the years, nearly all loyalty programs from Michigan wineries. As I mentioned previously, my neighborhood shop, Lake District Wine Co., has a membership club curating wines from around the world, and I highly recommend it. All of the wine clubs I’ve been in generally have a pick-up party, where you collect your quarterly wine package and are treated with nibbles and wine tastings.

And then there’s Princess & Bear, a niche Franco-Seattle wine club which overachieves with the membership perks. The owners, Carol and Steve, are an American couple who refocused from their careers as lawyer and surgeon to establish a home in the south of France. They fell so in love with the wines and the people who make them that they started a business to bring these artisan wines — generally with not enough production to attract an importer — to their friends back in the States.

How did we find it? That’s a story we’ve been asked to tell many times this week as we were the only members from Michigan — and from anywhere outside the greater Seattle metro area — at the annual fête.

Because I live within a five-minute walk of an excellent wine shop, I never considered joining a club that ships wine to my door, even when huge discounts were promised. I like to walk over to the shop and pick up one or two bottles at a time to accompany whatever I’m cooking that night, always getting excellent advice from the shop owners. I had no interest in a random selection of “wines we know you’ll love” from someone–or a robot– who’s never met me.

Until a few years ago when this club specializing in wines from the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France caught my eye.

We vacationed in the Languedoc in 2018 and I loved the region and the small, family-owned wineries we visited. I wanted to keep drinking those wines and imagining myself back in the south of France during the long Michigan winters. My neighborhood shop, excellent as it is, had only a small inventory of wines from the Languedoc, primarily because the region does not enjoy the market demand of Bordeaux or Burgundy or even the southern Rhone.

Then one day on my Instagram feed appeared a beautiful fairy tale-like map of the wines of the Languedoc. I was enchanted by this watercolor, and I’ve had it as my phone’s screensaver ever since. (Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of meeting the artist, Nicola Blakemore.)

Anyway, back in 2019, or maybe it was 2018, when I first saw this image, I clicked the accompanying link and discovered Princess & Bear. I could have four bottles of wine from small producers in the Languedoc shipped to me four times a year. I imagined one of the boxes including the delicious wine we enjoyed at one of our favorite stops on our 2018 trip to France: Domaine La Tour La Pagèze, which is unobtainable in the U.S.

Four bottles wasn’t much of a commitment, and I could quit the club at any time, so I decided to try it out, only to learn they couldn’t ship to Michigan. I forgot about it until the pandemic hit and circumstances made me worried I wouldn’t be able to get any wine at all from the Languedoc. So I tried again, hoping rules had changed. Sadly, still no shipping to Michigan, but then I asked: “do you ship to Chicago?” They could. I would not be defeated by protectionist Michigan laws!

So my dear son has been smuggling the wine to me from his home in Chicago for the past three years, except in the winter when I receive it in North Carolina, which despite being in the Bible Belt and legalizing “liquor by the drink” (the ability to order a cocktail in a restaurant) in my lifetime, has more lenient wine-shipment laws than Michigan. Go figure.

The first bottle I opened, a white from Chateau Pech Redon, blew me away with its freshness, depth of flavor, minerality and harmony. It was exactly the taste I love the most. But what really struck me as a sign from the universe is that shortly after drinking that delicious wine, I was walking passing Raduno, where the owner and chef extraordinaire was taking a break on the terrace with a couple of her friends. I saw the label on the wine they were drinking and it was Chateau Pech Redon! “Are you in the Princess & Bear wine club?” I asked the visitors. No, they had brought that bottle back from their recent trip to France and loved it so much they wanted to share it with their chef friend.

So that first bottle was a brilliant confirmation that I’d made the right choice to join this little wine club, even if it means driving to Chicago to fetch it (a 10-hour round trip, but we get to see our son and daughter-in-law). Every bottle since has been additional confirmation. They have all been a pleasure to drink, and I have particularly enjoyed the whites.

Last spring, I switched to P&B’s high-commitment club, the Mediterranean, which is 12 bottles, four times a year. Obviously, I’ve really loved the wine. And as I was soon informed, the Mediterranean club came with a special perk: an invitation to an annual party in France. I couldn’t take advantage of it last year, and I thought at the time I probably never would, but as fate would have it, this year the timing was good.

The princess and the bear in their beautiful lair.

More to come.

Wine Week Begins

We’ve been in numerous wine clubs over the years, mostly from our local northern Michigan wineries, and all have been good. Our neighborhood wine shop, Lake District Wine, does an excellent job of curating wines from around the world for its club members, and I highly recommend it to my friends in the Traverse City area.

But the wine club I can’t live without is the Princess and Bear, a Seattle-based importer that specializes in wines of the Languedoc-Rousillon region of France, where its founders, the delightful Carol and Steve, have a second home.

I discovered this club by accident after a previous visit to France when I was obsessed with all things Languedoc. (Actually, I’m still obsessed with all things Languedoc). I was intrigued that a U.S. company imports wines solely from the region I adore, and I tried to sign up for their club only to learn they could not ship to Michigan. Alas.

At the onset of the pandemic, events transpired that caused me to query P&B again, and while they still couldn’t ship to Michigan, I learned they could ship to Chicago. So for the past three years, our son in Chicago has been our wine smuggler, so to say.

As John began thinking about retirement, I mentioned to him that the P&B club had an annual party in the south of France and this year’s was scheduled for early October. Maybe we could go? Signing up for P&B wine week put a timeframe on our plan to launch the post-retirement period with travel. Had we not reserved this trip, I’m certain John would have either delayed his retirement because AP couldn’t do without him or we would’ve stayed indefinitely in North Carolina because our family couldn’t do without us.

Wine week is based in Montpellier, where as fate would have it is also home to some of the best and least expensive French immersion programs. Leah had long wanted to take a deep dive in learning French, so she took advantage of our trip to travel with us and enroll in a four-week course through Accent Francais, which has housed her with a French family.

After depositing Leah with her new French mommy, John and I began the activities of P&B wine week, and they have been spectacular.

First up was a welcome dinner at a tiny Montpellier restaurant, La table des poètes. We met other members of the wine club, all of whom are from Seattle. We are the only Michigan representatives in attendance, which is not surprising considering that Michigan doesn’t allow the shipments. (Protectionist state laws might foil most wine lovers, but I am undaunted).

The evening began with a Vegas-style casino game featuring wine tasting and a testing of one’s wine knowledge.

The sommelier who was our master of ceremonies was entertaining and extremely lenient about awarding points for correct (or vaguely correct) answers. No Jeopardy rules of getting it exactly right. Which means, of course, I won.

My prize was a bottle of Champagne from Gosset, the oldest wine producer in the Champagne region, making wine (although not champagne) since 1584. When my wine guy Ric explained the bargain of European wines in relation to American wines as “they paid off their mortgages centuries ago,” he could’ve been referring to this place.

Wine casino was followed by a multi-course meal featuring so many delicious little bites paired with wine, and also great conversation. I spent much of the evening learning about the joys of living in Montpellier from Ann, an American who makes her home here now and organizes a weekly coffee meeting for other Americans in the city.

I shouldn’t be surprised that, despite being in another country and among strangers, John managed to find someone with whom to talk shop. Seated across from him was Jim, a retired attorney who was involved in an endangered frog case John covered. It’s a small world! Jim and his wife, Pat, live in part-time in Montpellier and, like me, Pat loves knitting and books. If we ever live here, we’ll have friends.

Yesterday we took a walking tour of the city followed by a tasting of P&B wines at the top of Montpellier’s Arc de Triomphe. It was a steep climb up a narrow, winding stone staircase, but the view at the top was an ample reward (as were the wines).

From the top of the Arc de Triomphe we could see the Pic St. Loup, which we will climb tomorrow.

Today’s activity was unbelievable. We had a private tour of the vineyards and house of Chateau l’Engerran, whose wine maker, Diane Losfelt, was voted France’s winegrower of the year in 2021 by the prestigious Guide Hachette.

Our tour began in the small tasting room, where we received glasses and set out for the vineyards. The morning was foggy – our first clouds of the trip so far (the sun soon returned). Matthieu, our excellent guide, gave a master class on the chateau’s terroir, growing methods, history and local wine-making rules. Each stop of our tour through the Chateau’s history was accompanied by a tasting of one of its excellent wines.

We learned about one previous owner of the Chateau of whom Alexandre Dumas must have never been aware of else he surely would have penned a novel based on his exploits. Laurent Quetton Saint George was a monarchist who escaped the guillotine in the French revolution by emigrating to England, which didn’t like having all those French royalists about so suggested some of them go on to Canada. It was in Canada that he made his fortune, which he later used to acquire the Engerran estate near his birthplace of Montpellier. He also acquired a wife, and he died soon after marrying her. The story, as Matthieu told it, is that St. George was poisoned by someone in his new family, who were concerned about sharing his wealth with children from a relationship he had in Canada. He is buried in the estate chapel.

After our tour through the chateau’s tangled vines, we adjourned to the lawn for a delicious lunch accompanied by more wine.

The first course of the lunch. I stopped taking photos after this because I was too busy eating.

Incidentally, one fascinating tidbit we learned is that the chateau recently hosted a film production crew. Which film? A new adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo! It’s to be released at the end of next year.

The universe seems to be signaling that I’m currently where I’m meant to be.

Moving in day, Montpellier

The tourism part of our European sojourn is taking a back seat to the living in France phase.

We’ll still be seeing the sights, but mostly we’ll be resuming our writerly occupations along with daily chores such as going to the grocery, cooking dinner, and tidying the apartment we’ve rented for a month.

John trying out the French cooktop, energy efficient induction.

Directly under our apartment is a small organic market, very convenient for purchasing our daily bread. I saw the bread truck arrive this morning and waited a few minutes, then headed down for a pain de campagne (country loaf), a tub of goat yogurt and a tomato. A couple of blocks away is a full-service Carrefour, the Harris Teeter of France but with much more reasonable prices. We’ve heard French people complain about the cost of groceries, but so far, we’ve found food items to be less costly than in the States, sometimes significantly so.

My former Traverse City wine merchant, when I asked him why European wines were less expensive than U.S. wines, told me “the Europeans paid off their mortgages centuries ago.” The view out our apartment window is a daily reminder of how many centuries have passed in this human settlement.

The aqueduct of Montpellier, constructed in the style of the Romans.

Before we checked into our apartment, we left Leah with her French host family. She’ll be immersed in la langue française for the next four weeks, taking classes at Accent Français and speaking only French at her residence.

Tonight, we begin wine week with an opening dinner at a nearby restaurant, where we will meet the founders of the Princess and Bear wine club, which imports wines from artisan producers in the Languedoc region of southern France. I highly recommend this club if you are able to arrange the shipping. Michigan has weird laws that prohibit it from being shipped to us there, so we send it to our son in Chicago or to North Carolina for the winter months.

À plus tard !